


Modern Day Legends

by AndreaLyn



Series: Modern Day Legends [1]
Category: King Arthur (2004)
Genre: F/M, M/M, modern day AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-20
Updated: 2015-10-03
Packaged: 2017-12-29 22:06:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 51,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1010663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AndreaLyn/pseuds/AndreaLyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone is good at something. Arthur and his Knights; they were experts at killing. When a space opens up in the organization, they look to bringing Galahad into the fold, but things are beginning to get more complicated as the police (and other enemies) get closer to taking them out.</p><p>A modern-day AU of the Knights set in the present day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

0.

Lancelot flipped another ace down on the table, reclining back in one of the leather chairs he’d splurged on the other day with his latest cash payment for a job well done. “Ace,” he commented evenly. “Queen. Jack.” He kept flipping until he got to the spades, taking them out and taking out his gun, turning to the targets and striding over, pinning them up, quickly firing a few shots until each card had a hole through the middle.

“Shut up,” Tristan complained, taking the cloth off his eyes. “You’re  _aware_  how ridiculous it is to have a calling card, aren’t you?”

“It’s target practice,” Lancelot replied witheringly.

Tristan snorted. “You left one in the pocket of your last victim.”

Gawain snickered as he entered, closing and locking the front door behind him, sliding the deadbolt into place. “Don’t tell me Tristan is lecturing on how to leave as few clues as possible,” he dropped a few bags of food down on the table. “After the last debacle and close call,” he murmured, chewing on a few fries. “I’m never working with you again,” Gawain said with a full mouth. “You ruined my leather jacket. Blood…all  _over_  it.”

Tristan shrugged, nodding to the closet. Gawain raised an eyebrow and headed over, opening it up to find a new jacket. He grinned and slipped into it, marveling in the three-way mirror at the fit.

“Like it?” Tristan asked as Lancelot collapsed back into his chair, grabbing a cloth and shining his sword, grabbing some fries with his other hand. Every once in a while, Lancelot would look to the door, as though expecting someone, but no one ever came. “It’s not fake. I don’t buy fake.”

“Enough about that,” Lancelot muttered, swallowing his food and sheathing his sword. “Since Arthur’s not here yet, I say we start recruiting to fill Percival’s spot.”

“Bastard got lucky,” Bors grunted from his spot, napping on the couch. He roused himself and spat on the floor. “Some of them get life in jail. He was lucky enough to get killed.”

Gawain rolled his eyes and paced around the floor, stretching out the jacket as he went. He absently toyed with his throwing axe and opened up the flap of the jacket to find a place to put it. His grin grew wider as he clapped Tristan on the back, appreciative as he slipped his weapon into his jacket, admiring the snug fit.

“Had my eye on some kid, but the police have been following him,” Lancelot commented, tucking the cards away and keeping the ace up his sleeve. “Cerdic…something or other. Cynric? Don’t know. Word is they’re a father and son killing team. We could recruit the son.”

“Or we could recruit Galahad,” Gawain spoke up, earning the silence of the room.

“Galahad?” Bors snorted. “Your whelp, he have a thing for medieval times?”

“You’re one to speak,  _Bors_ ,” Lancelot replied wickedly.

Bors growled. “Nicknames, idiot. Nicknames after the actual Knights of the Round Table are not names. His is. So’s Gawain’s,” Bors grinned, flicking a fry at Gawain’s forehead.

“Our mothers were best friends with a love affair for medieval names,” Gawain muttered under his breath, rubbing at the grease on his face. “Trust me, the names aren’t by choice. Look, he’s been my best friend since we were five, he’s been fighting with a sword since he was eight, he’s got the best damn aim I’ve ever seen and I know he’d be good with a gun.”

“And you live with him,” Tristan pointed out innocently.

“What does that matter?” Gawain hissed. He turned to the others. “We share a flat.”

“And he hates killing,” Tristan continued, buffing his nails.

“He hates… _what_?” Lancelot spat, outraged.

Gawain rolled his eyes again, growling with frustration. “He’ll come along without question. He’s in some money trouble and he’d do just about anything to earn the money back, even if it means killing. Besides, I’ll bring him in, I’ll train him.” He shrugged and tied back his dreads, taking off the jacket and draping it over the arm of the couch. “He’d be good.”

“He’s got the innocent face,” Tristan pointed out.

Lancelot shrugged. “And we could send him out because he’s new. They’ve all got sketchy descriptions on some of us…”

“…and complete descriptions of others,” Bors snarled, his focus completely on Tristan. Gawain was staring at Tristan, who seemed oblivious to both the verbal and physical attacks in the form of harsh glares. “You enjoy your killing almost as much as I do, but you’re stupid enough to get caught.”

“He’s not stupid,” a new voice pierced the room. Lancelot looked up, his face brightening when he saw Arthur. “He just enjoys the thrill of the close call.”

“Do you spy on us?” Gawain hissed to Tristan, cuffing him upside the head while Lancelot and Arthur shared a small smile, communicating quietly in the little time they had. Tristan mouthed ‘yes’ in response, earning yet another smack from Gawain. Arthur cleared his throat and quickly earned everyone’s silence.

Dagonet had come in, trailing behind and twirling car keys around his finger as Gawain dropped himself onto Tristan’s lap angrily, earning an ‘oof’ in the process. He smirked at Tristan before turning his attention – his attention swerving along with everyone else’s – to Arthur, who was standing there and wiping blood off of his sword. They formed a haphazard circle in the middle of their operations – which really was a terrible term for the swanky ground floor loft that Arthur had bought in one of the nicest buildings in town, outfitted by the six of them with the nicest of chairs, furniture and fixtures.

Arthur and his Knights.

The police knew them as that, as did anyone who was trying to find enough evidence to put them away for good. They followed Arthur’s orders religiously, never killing where they weren’t supposed to, never straying from a directive. Bors, Lancelot, and Dagonet had been with him from the start and Gawain and Tristan had been recruited along the way. None of them had really chosen this way of life – though there were rumours of Tristan seeking out the Knights and impressing himself upon Arthur to get his admittance. They were young teens when they joined for various reasons that pressed them into it – ties with crime, a need to pay off a loan, family trouble – but it remained in every one of them that they mostly fell into this life; never a chosen vocation. Most of them had a background with the police, if only petty theft or assault, but they shared one thing in common:

They were experts at killing.

They were paid well by various mobs that didn’t want to get their hands wet. In the underworld, Arthur and his Knights had become a fixture, a failsafe resort when you wanted a job well done.

“Recruiting?” Arthur questioned, one hand draped around Lancelot’s shoulders. That was the other thing everyone knew upon entering. Lancelot was Arthur’s right hand man, and occasionally – most nights – would offer Arthur a right hand, or a left hand, or just a dick. It was common knowledge that they’d been fucking around for years now, and the word ‘love’ was whispered behind backs, never spoken loud enough for Arthur’s ears to take notice. He looked to Lancelot. “You suggested the Saxon family, yes?”

“Gawain wants to bring in his whore,” Lancelot shrugged.

“He’s  _not_  my whore,” Gawain replied witheringly, one hand on the hilt of his sword, almost automatically. “We’re not involved,” he growled out, twitching when Tristan pinched at his thighs. Gawain turned and glared. “We’re  _not_.”

“Is that what you call it?” Tristan asked with a knowing smirk.

“Don’t hold out now,” Lancelot grinned lasciviously, tugging Arthur over to his chair and pushing him down, sitting on the arm of the leather chair. Gawain groaned when no one bothered to keep up the front of talking about recruiting and instead stared at Tristan, eager for the information. The worst part was that Gawain knew exactly where this was going.

He buried his face in his hands, hearing the grin in Tristan’s words. “Was on surveillance one night. Dropped by to give Gawain the co-ordinates. Caught him watching the boy getting off, and not just unknown voyeurism. Looked like an arrangement.”

“It is,” Gawain groaned from behind his hands. “There’s no touching involved, no names, and no talking about it after.”

“Classy,” Dagonet said simply. “Do you pay him too?”

“He’s  _not_  my whore,” Gawain growled slowly. “Arthur, would you just let me bring him in and put him through the tests? He’ll pass them. He’ll do us good.”

Arthur twisted his lips in concentration, fingers tapping the blunt edge of his sword as he thought and shrugged gracefully, almost in one smooth motion. “If he fails, he fails. And you know what happens to the ones who fail.”

“He won’t fail,” Gawain swore. Every one of them had the image of Tristan enjoying the thrill of killing those that failed their test in the foremost part of their minds, but Gawain seemed determined in his belief. “He’s a better driver than I am too. Give him a car, make him the getaway driver.”

Arthur’s lips curled up into a smile. “Lancelot, reserve the course. Tristan, set up the targets here. Bors, battle with swords. Gawain, you’re not to be involved at all because you have a personal connection.”

“Does he even know what it is you do?” Dagonet asked evenly, arching one eyebrow.

Gawain faltered. “Well, no.”

Lancelot covered his smirk behind a hand, smiling innocently at Gawain as everyone began to rouse themselves to get up and go appear to hold down a respectable job in the pub that provided them a front – the pub was something that Bors had bought with his money a number of years back, hired his girlfriend to man the bar, and given every one of them jobs so their tax returns might come off looking a little  _less_  illegal. Gawain checked his watch and began to drift towards the door as the rest of them dissolved into their own organized chaos.

“Gawain,” Arthur called out, tapping on his Rolex. “Bring him here. 10 AM tomorrow.”

“He won’t fail,” Gawain promised again, unlocking the door and slipping on his sunglasses as he headed out into the ‘real’ world.

1.

“I don’t want to interview for a bloody bartending job,” Galahad bitched as Gawain walked three paces ahead of him. “Why can’t I just go to my Aunt Elaine and beg her to get my parents to pay off my debt!”

“Your debt is with loan sharks,” Gawain shot back over his shoulder, tugging his jacket a little snugger, pleased with how well it fit. “And you’re not interviewing for a ‘bloody bartending job’,” Gawain mocked Galahad’s tone. Gawain loved Galahad, he did, but the man was a spoiled brat through and through. Ever since they’d become best of friends, Gawain was known as the down-to-earth one and Galahad was the ‘money’.

Gawain fiddled with his sunglasses, eyeing the driving course just in the distance. This was the easy test. There was no way Galahad would fail with the car. When Galahad was sixteen and Gawain was a year and a half older, Galahad had inherited his father’s Porsche and took to using it in drag races, chases around crowded metropolises, and never once did he wreck it. He also never lost. The only downside, of course, was that Galahad had developed a tendency to drive for the thrill. Gawain had personally made sure that Galahad’s new Corvette had come with safety handles to grip onto. Gawain looked back to check that Galahad was coming along and lowered his sunglasses for a moment to let his eyes linger and enjoy the view.

Spoiled brat or not, he had a knack for clothes – both buying the best, and pulling them off. Even in the heat of the sun and the sweltering summer, Galahad was wearing the nicest of Prada shoes for men, leather trousers, and black button-down, topped off with his trademark mussed curls – that Gawain knew for a fact were never combed other than the odd occasion – and a pair of sunglasses to match Gawain’s own. The man dressed to kill. Now, if only Gawain could get him to start using that damned family sword for the job. The sword was a thing of beauty. Engraved with Galahad’s name and the lightest sword he’d ever held – but just the once, when Galahad had humoured him.

Gawain strolled onto the lot to find Arthur standing with his arms crossed, ever alert in his business suit and Lancelot leaning against the car – a brand new Porsche and Gawain wasted no time wondering who was footing that bill – and sipping from a ridiculously large cup of coffee.

“Ten o’clock,” Arthur smiled, “on the dot,” he added proudly. “I’ve taught you well.”

Galahad sauntered up some seconds later and took off his sunglasses for a brief moment before slipping them back on. “Ten seconds past ten o’clock, I’m afraid,” he said, directly to Arthur, appraising him from head to toe and nodding with approval. His inspection of Lancelot, however, garnered a more disdainful snort. “I’m Galahad,” he extended one hand – nails were fucking manicured, Gawain noticed. He was flushing money down the drain lately – and stood there casually after shaking hands with both Lancelot and Arthur. “So, what am I doing here?”

“You still haven’t told him?” Lancelot asked, eyes wide with shock.

“Put him through the test,” Gawain said through gritted teeth. “He’ll know what’s going on when he passes.”

“If,” Lancelot countered, arching an eyebrow. He smirked and leaned in to whisper to Gawain. “He makes it in, you and him will be fucking after every single damn kill. Arthur will assign him to you, of course.”

“Is that supposed to be incentive?” Gawain raised an eyebrow.

Lancelot shrugged. “It happens. You know it. I know you and Tristan have indulged and everyone knows about me and Arthur.”

“Do you really have to go to such expensive places?” Gawain muttered under his breath. At the end of every month, each of them got the chance to look over all the others’ income statements to see just what they’d all been spending money on – and lately, whores had been an item, as per Bors’ request. It was the only way to find out just which weapons everyone had been buying and exactly how much the price tag came out to.

Lancelot shrugged again, the gesture almost automatic now. “Arthur likes five-star hotels.”

Gawain looked over to see Galahad withdraw his leather driving gloves and slip them on expertly as he hopped gracefully into the driver seat. He turned to see Lancelot looking in the same direction, as Galahad ran a hand through his hair and adjusted his sunglasses in the mirror, taking the top of the car down and tossing his wallet to Gawain, who caught it with some surprise.

“He’s good looking,” Lancelot murmured. “I will give you that.”

“He’s spoiled as hell,” Gawain muttered.

“Really?” Lancelot drawled sarcastically. “Well, let’s see how good he is.” Galahad gave a feral grin as he revved the engine while Arthur took long strides to join Lancelot and Gawain – the both of them making room for Arthur to stand between them. “What did you tell him to do?” Lancelot asked curiously.

They watched, hearing the skid of the tires as the car went from zero to at least fifty kilometres per hour in a blink of the eye, smoke rising and tire marks staining the concrete as the car kicked into gear and was off in the distance within seconds.

“I told him to show off,” Arthur smirked.

Somewhere about two hundred metres away, Galahad braked hard and they watched as the car skidded and turned itself back around so it was facing them, and then, not even five seconds later, Galahad had the car back to where he’d started, grinning like he’d just had a night of good sex.

“Get in,” he ordered, positively purring along with the engine. “You boys are going for a ride,” he added, patting the steering wheel, his other hand on the gearshift, nearly stroking it. Lancelot and Arthur stared at the car in wonder while Gawain hopped into the front seat, grinning at the others. “Well? Don’t tell me you don’t want a good, hard, long ride?” Galahad stretched out his words, stroking the gearshift slowly.

“How does a boy get raised like this?” Lancelot gulped down other words and got in the backseat, tugging Arthur in with him. He slipped his hand inside Arthur’s trousers and stroked Arthur’s growing erection a few times as Galahad checked to make sure they were buckled up before shifting gears and pressing his foot down on the gas. Arthur leaned into Lancelot’s touch as Galahad took them out into main traffic, swerving in and out of lanes as natural as breathing came.

Gawain’s gaze drifted down to the gearshift, licking his lips as he watched Galahad fondle it with every shift he made, perfect nails making perfectly graceful motions and taking them on a smooth ride towards the city. Every roundabout was handled with such grace that Gawain began to wonder whether Galahad had been taking trips out to his parents’ country home and claiming the car for weekend joy rides.

The ride ended when Galahad glided into a spot at half-speed and braking hard, coming to a stop six centimetres from the truck in front of him. Gawain grinned and unbuckled, stretching to look in the backseat, where Lancelot had his hand down Arthur’s trousers and Lancelot had a red mark on his neck.

“Uh…” Lancelot started.

Arthur grinned. “He passed.”

2.

“Your choice,” Tristan waved a hand over the guns lying on red silk cloth, licking his lips and unable to resist giving each and every last one of them a quick, affectionate pat. Galahad was staring at the guns in awestruck wonder. “They’re top of the line models. In other words, don’t ruin them in any way or I’ll have to use them on you.”

Galahad picked up a compact silver model; Tristan’s personal favourite – one he’d nicknamed the ‘Hawk’ – and checked the magazine, refilling the ammo. Tristan raised an eyebrow. He hadn’t expected Galahad to know the different between a tranquilizer gun and an AK-47, but here he was, holding the gun and cocking it with a cocky grin. Tristan made a note to make himself some second impressions. He took Galahad’s leather coat and draped it over the couch as he led Galahad over to the targets, wrapping his hands around his front and splaying his palms on Galahad’s hipbones, enjoying the space because… _well, why not?_  Tristan thought.

“You’re pretty thin,” Tristan murmured into Galahad’s ear as he directed him towards a few targets.

“Most people just think I’m pretty,” Galahad murmured back, turning to give a wink. Tristan backed off and crossed his arms. “Is there anything in particular you want me to do?”

Tristan shook his head. “Just shoot.”

Galahad shrugged, turned towards the targets and closed one eye, shooting effectively – one shot per target – and producing a constant line of six loud pops in a row. Galahad smiled prettily, holding the gun out to Tristan as soon as he’d put the safety back on. Tristan stepped in and surveyed the scene. Each of the six targets – a few enemies, mostly biker gangs that the Knights hated, a few mob bosses – had bulletholes through either the forehead or the heart.

“You shot to kill,” Tristan murmured, impressed. “I thought you hated killing.”

“I like doing things well,” Galahad replied. “And I hate killing.”

“I’ll change that,” Tristan smirked. “Just give me time.”

He stepped forward, pressing Galahad against the bulletproof glass and sticking his tongue down Galahad’s throat, brushing the cooling gun against Galahad’s cheek, gliding past cheekbones and the smallest sheen of sweat before brushing it down Galahad’s silk shirt and putting it in the waist of Galahad’s jeans, pulling away. Tristan licked his lips, pressing two fingers to the place on his lower lip where Galahad had bitten him.

“For luck,” Tristan explained.

“Aren’t you supposed to do that before the event?”

“You’re going to need the luck when you’re fighting with Bors and Dagonet,” Tristan explained, pointing him to the training room. “I hope you’re good with a sword.”

Galahad smirked, leaning down and unsheathing his sword, glinting in the light of the room and holding the tip of the blade horizontally under Tristan’s chin, tipping his gaze upwards with the cold steel of the blade guiding the whole way. Tristan grinned, his Adam’s apple bobbing and brushing against the sword as he admired the make of the sword. Galahad turned the blade slightly, letting the blunt side of the blade drift past Tristan’s pulse and then brushing down his arm, tapping him on the wrist.

“You’re going to fit in wonderfully,” Tristan said with malicious delight. “I’m going to try and get Arthur to pair you with me.”

Galahad took the gun out of his jeans and placed it back on the silk cloth delicately, noting the other models and picking them up, as though testing the weight. Tristan kept his distance, watching. Galahad studied each gun with fascinated interested, even putting down his sword.

“So, what job requires this kind of testing, anyhow?” Galahad murmured absently, turning the gun and checking the number. “I mean, not that I didn’t enjoy the joyride, but it’s all a little suspicious. Not that I’m complaining. I need the money. Why’s everyone so secretive though?”

“Gawain hasn’t told you?” Tristan asked evenly.

He nudged Galahad towards the training room. Galahad swiped sweat from his forehead, fanning himself with his free hand. “Though, he’s always been the one who could keep a secret.” He kept pushing Galahad until they reached a sparse room, only a few objects in there – things that looked abandoned from the local secondary school drama department, wooden stairs and styrofoam rocks and a few ‘mountains’.

The door adjacent to the training room door opened and Tristan slipped into the room where Gawain, Lancelot, and Arthur were already waiting – all of which were eating popcorn and watching through the two-way mirror. Galahad stepped into the room and surveyed it as Bors and Dagonet both surrounded him – wielding two short knives and the axe respectively – hesitating as Galahad smirked and held up a hand. Slowly, he shed himself of his shirt, leaving only a small white tank. Tristan exchanged a quick look with Lancelot.

“You didn’t tell us he was such a slut,” Tristan commented evenly, ducking out of the way before Gawain could land a punch on his jaw. “He let me shove my tongue down his throat.”

“Galahad doesn’t  _let_ ,” Gawain murmurs, glaring at Tristan. “He encourages.” Gawain swallowed hard. “Oh god, I want that sword so fucking much,” he said, turning his attention back to the fight that had started, his eyes on the sword. “I got to hold it once, you know. Just once. It’s…fuck. I hate that he’s so rich and gets all these gifts. His family gave him a yacht for his eighteenth birthday…a horse for his sixth.”

“So what’s wrong with him?” Arthur was leaning forward on his elbows, studying the fight.

“He doesn’t like to kill. He’ll fight in self-defense, but he hates it. He hates getting his hands dirty, so he won’t do the messy work. He’s got no brute force, takes a hit too easily and it puts him out of commission,” Gawain explained, ticking the reasons off on his fingers. “Giving him orders is like pulling teeth, and he’s such a damned snob about _everything_.”

They watched in silence as Galahad rolled forward on the floor to avoid a lunge forward from Dagonet and his axe, watching him bounce up eagerly, panting.

“Don’t tell me this is actually a test,” Galahad’s voice echoed in the small room.

Bors growled, trapping Galahad with his knives in the process of four short moves – which was exactly the same number Arthur needed to get anyone into checkmate in a game of chess. “Finally. You need to shut up, boy.”

Arthur watched with keen interest as Galahad seemed to go lax in Bors’ grip. They all watched intently as Galahad shifted and raised his knee in a smooth, swift motion and kneed Bors hard in the groin. Those watching in the small room let out a collective, empathetic sound of pain, but Tristan’s snickering was louder than Gawain, Arthur, and Lancelot combined. Gawain glared at Tristan and punched him once in the arm.

“It just means there won’t be any children for a few months,” Tristan said between bullets of laughter. “No more child-minding!”

Galahad was wriggling out of Bors’ grasp as he doubled over in very visible pain, holding Dagonet at sword-point and inclining his gaze towards the mirror, running one hand through his hair to make sure it wasn’t mussed as he raised an eyebrow. Gawain shook his head, wishing in that moment more than anything that they hadn’t put that stupid _no-touching_  rule in place.

“Well?” Galahad’s voice echoed, overlapping the sounds of Bors’ harsh breathing. “Do I pass?”

3.

“So you’re in,” Tristan’s voice caught Galahad off guard.

Galahad turned slowly, tucking his sword under his overcoat on the chair and bending down to collect his things as Tristan slowly approached him, silk cloth in hand. It was dark outside and nearly everyone had already gone home for the night except for Galahad, Tristan and Gawain – who was sitting outside in the car and waiting patiently for Galahad to join him.

Galahad took his time leaning over to pick his sunglasses up off the glass coffee table, his eyes never quite leaving Tristan. He had one eyebrow raised, bemused. Tristan kept approaching and soon, there was nothing but mere inches separating them. At this proximity, Galahad could see the mark on Tristan’s lip where he’d bit  _hard_. Galahad assumed a slightly more cocked stance, relaxing his weight onto one foot, and parting his lips – his lower lip jutted out just a slight bit more than the upper. For every inhalation of breath Galahad took, Tristan exhaled, and they continued in harmony. Tristan pressed the silk cloth against Galahad’s crotch, shifting slightly and stroking through the loose jeans.

“S’this?” Galahad murmured, looking down. Every time Tristan inhaled now, he drew the smallest of curls up from the top of Galahad’s head.

Tristan grinned, pressing the package into Galahad’s hand. “Present. You’re used to them, aren’t you? Spoiled little brat like you are.”

Galahad raised an eyebrow. “It’s got its benefits,” he replied mildly, unwrapping the cloth to find a pair of car keys. “These…”

“…are for the Jaguar outside,” Tristan finished his sentence with a predatory grin on his face, pressing their hips together. “I’d ask you to take me for a ride, but…why go out?”

He continued backing Galahad up until they collapsed on the leather couch, the keys sliding noisily across the marble floor. Galahad’s eyes widened and his face lit up with a grin as he shoved one hand inside Tristan’s trousers and stroked his cock a few times with messy precision. Tristan gave a gasp of delighted pleasure as Galahad inclined his chin upwards, tugging at Tristan’s lower lip and making a bloody mess of it, licking at the small rivulets of blood once he’d done the damage.

“Gawain’s outside,” Galahad whispered.

“So be quick.” Tristan pressed his hips down harder against Galahad’s, fingers rushing to undo the jeans and easily flipping Galahad over so that he was on his stomach, lying across the couch, head and toes touching each armrest. “Arch your back,” Tristan hummed the words, digging under the couch for his secret stash of condoms and lube. Galahad did as instructed, graceful as ever, leaning into the cool touch of Tristan’s probing fingers, pushing in between the cheeks and lingering, pressing against sensitive areas and stroking just enough to tease.

Tristan rolled the condom on expertly – and he knew that if he wasn’t already a killer for hire, he could make his worth on the street – and shifted until he could turn Galahad forcibly once more, wrapping each ankle around Tristan’s neck – pausing momentarily to marvel at Galahad’s flexibility – before grasping at the thighs and pushing in hard, starting fast and never slowing the pace. Tristan’s fingers dug in at the thighs, occasionally slipping up to the hips as he thrust, a groan to every forward push and an accompanying moan of a reply from Galahad – drawn out and  _loud_.

Tristan grinned. “Think,” he panted, “I’m going to like…having you…around.”

Galahad lasted longer than Tristan’s last trick had, coming about half a minute after Tristan began to stroke Galahad’s cock hard, his thumb brushing with force – nearly flicking – the head of his cock with sheer determination. Tristan never came first. Galahad’s back arched as he climaxed, shouting a bark of a yelp, and Tristan narrowed his eyes suspiciously, focusing for a split second when he could have  _sworn_  he’d heard the beginnings of Gawain’s name in that cry, but it was no more than a second before all his thoughts swirled into nothingness and he lost himself to his orgasm.

Panting, Tristan disentangled Galahad legs from him and zipped up his jeans, biting at Galahad’s lower lip, the harsh gesture turning into a slow, heated kiss as Tristan worked the button of Galahad’s jeans with one hand and brought him up off the couch with his other hand. He smirked when he realized he was going to be cleaning the couch before he left, but it was worth it.

“And what was that?” Galahad exhaled in one large breath.

“I just christened you,” Tristan grinned, licking up Galahad’s neck and bending down to grasp the keys and press them firmly into Galahad’s hand. The sound of a horn honking caused them to both dissolve into laughter – Galahad’s more nervous than Tristan’s – and Tristan shifted to let Galahad up. “Take me for a spin sometime?”

Galahad shrugged, grabbing his coat and sword and running a hand through sweaty hair. “I suppose.” He lingered in the doorway. “So I’m going to be killing people for a living now?” he asked, his voice weaker, more unsure.

“It’s a living,” Tristan called over to him, searching for the wastebasket. “A very profitable living.”

The horn honked again.

“What if I can’t do it?” Galahad said quietly.

“You will,” Tristan replied easily, flicking the used condom into the trash and zipping up his trousers. “You’ll do fine. And you’ll have Gawain there with you. After all, Arthur made you two partners.”

“It’s just the obvious.”

They stared at each other as three sharp honks came in a row. Neither blinked and neither moved, but then Galahad cracked a grin and tucked his keys away, slipping into his jacket and holding his sword.

“Pays well?” Galahad asked.

“Pays great,” Tristan responded quickly, giving the smallest of waves as he turned away. When he looked back once more, Galahad was gone. The place was silent and he had it to himself. With a private grin, he turned back to the collection of guns and took out the one he’d used to caress Galahad’s cheek, spinning it and striding away for some target practice. He could clean up later.

4.

The vase Bors had brought back from Shanghai went flying past Bors’ head, missing the wall by the breadth of Dagonet’s hands. Dagonet had caught it soundly and set it down on the table as the loud  _smack_  of Vanora’s hand on Bors’ cheek replaced the sound of a priceless antique crashing against the wall.

“I still can’t believe you did it again,” Vanora growled, her eyes filled with fury and her hands never still in their continued assault, which Bors took with silent acceptance. “You just can’t ever keep it in your pants, now can you?”

Another trinket went flying.

“Hey…hey, come on…”

“ _Don’t_  even try. Six! Who…who has six children anymore?”

Bors grinned, reaching for Vanora’s hips and tugging her forward, skittering over the carpet right into his arms. “We do,” Bors murmured lowly and affectionately, kissing her hard even as she absently pounded on his chest with flat palms. He grinned even wider. “How far along are you now, love? Four months?” he asked, brushing his thumb over her stomach in small circles while Dagonet preoccupied himself with setting the vase back down where it had originally stood.

“Five months,” she corrected him, a hush in her voice. Her eyes lifted and caught Dagonet’s gaze. “Dag, how’s Arthur these days on boys? Think he can give my oaf some time?”

“New one just got sworn in today,” Dagonet confirmed. “Don’t know if he’ll stick around.”

Bors had a slight hunch that could have been the result of a medical problem, but Vanora could easily tell that it was hardly more than a character flaw. With every year, Bors seemed to grow outwards rather than in any other direction, but he made up for that by attending gym sessions with Gawain and Dagonet and turning most of the bulk into some form of muscle. According to Bors, his fists were his most lethal weapons – deadlier than guns, swords, and sharp objects combined – and he took great pride in them. He’d boxed when he was younger and when he’d wound up running down the wrong road with a loan shark, he’d managed to scrape himself out a bad situation – Arthur’s money miracles not having been made available at that point in time. Bors always got by, no matter the situation. He’d begun to keep his hair short, citing the need for less pain around the household – five grabby children tended to be hell on the hair as Bors had learned quickly. He cared fiercely for anyone who got past the gruff exterior and he  _showed_  it.

Bors’ gaze was inclined down at Vanora’s stomach and Dagonet sat himself down on the couch, able to see every graze of the finger, every last small affectionate touch between them. The pub was downstairs and the flat upstairs was the three of theirs and the children’s, decorated down to the last nook, something Vanora did during her time off.

“A boy, you think?” Bors was asking like an excited child.

“Girl,” Vanora said sternly.

Bors grunted. “How do you know?”

“I’m the mother. I know.”

Vanora slipped away from Bors’ grasp and sat down beside Dagonet on the couch, while Bors stood above them both. She let out a tired sigh and clutched at her back. “The kids are asleep,” she told them. “And Arthur’s watching the pub.”

“Arthur?” Dagonet murmured in confusion. “It was Tristan’s night.”

“They switched,” Vanora smirked. “Tristan said he had a pressing engagement.”

“What do you wanna say, ten quid says he slept with the whelp tonight?” Bors smirked, his arms crossed. He crouched down on the ground in front of them, one hand on Vanora’s thigh, the other on Dagonet’s knee. “One of these days…one of these days _soon_ , I’ll talk to Arthur about getting out for good.”

Vanora remained silent, and for good reason.

“No one’s ever done that before,” Dagonet reminded Bors and sounding Vanora’s thoughts, looking down at him.

Vanora nodded vehemently, taking Dagonet’s hand and pressing it to the slight swell of her stomach. He grinned and shook his head, impressed that Bors could be so productive in procreation. “There’s blackmail, and there are enemies, and even friends,” she said evenly. “You die, or you go to prison, or you remain a Knight. It’s never been anything but.”

Bors sighed, looking to the ground.

“We’ll find a way,” Dagonet assured them, standing up. “I’m going to see if Arthur needs any help.” He gave them a calm smile as he stood, Bors patting him once on the knee before he picked up one of the bottles of whiskey he’d been meaning to give to Arthur, remembering it as a gift.

He closed the door behind him slowly, listening to the faint drifts of conversation.

“I’m too old, Vanora.”

“We’ll get you out.”

There was a pause. Dagonet began to walk away, the last thing he heard being Bors’ faint reply.

“I’m too damn old.”

5.

The message on his mobile said ‘Four Seasons. 3 AM’ and Arthur was nothing if not a stickler for punctuality. He’d draped his suit jacket over his shoulder upon entering the lobby of the hotel, enjoying the sound of his shoes on the floor. Some bellmen tipped their hats at him, and the girls at the desk hid their giggles as he winked while he walked by. It was straight to the elevator, straight to the penthouse, straight to the person who’d be inevitably waiting. The ride up was spent in silence to the soundtrack of muzak and in his hand, he clutched the whiskey Dagonet had given him.

He whistled absently as he stepped out and knocked on the penthouse door, gaining entry almost immediately.

“Oliver Twist?” Lancelot cocked an eyebrow upwards, accepting the bottle. “Are you listening to old musicals again?” Lancelot hummed a bar. “You’ve got to pick a pocket or two,” he sang with a smirk, screwing open the whiskey and pouring some into two waiting tumblers with ice for himself, and neat for Arthur. “Dagonet picks them well,” Lancelot murmured absently, taking the first sip as he handed Arthur his glass.

Arthur sipped lightly, never caring that much to indulge in alcohol. “It’s got a good nip,” he said with approval, a smile lurking on his lips. Lancelot grinned, leaning in for a kiss and tilting his head at the last minute to nip at Arthur’s neck. “Now, that…that has quite the nip too,” Arthur laughed.

Lancelot grinned, sprawling himself in one of the large chairs rife with cushions. “You know,” he began conversationally as Arthur crossed the room and sat on the arm of the chair. “Every day I hope a little more that you’ll be late. One day, it will…”

“.,.never happen,” Arthur interrupted sternly. “I’m on time, and if I’m not, I’m likely in a coma or dead.”

Lancelot glared. “Would you stop saying things like that?”

“Death is inevitable, Lancelot,” Arthur said mildly, digging out his lighter when Lancelot cradled a cigarette between his lips. Arthur lit it with little show. “You noted the trainings today, yes?” Lancelot nodded, the chore of the day weighing on him. He had hoped to bring Arthur for a night – early morning, rather – of relaxation. “Good. And the new techniques I showed you?”

“Arthur,” Lancelot protested with a sigh.

“Lancelot,” Arthur countered, raising an eyebrow.

Even in his button-down shirt and trousers, Arthur had the air of a man of business. He used reading glasses very little, though the smallest of print would require him to put them on. He appreciated the finer things, but never  _indulged_. He was organized, he was upstanding, and strangest of all – or some would say – he was devoutly religious. Not a day would go by without one of his Knights catching him in a quick prayer. He carried a black rosary tucked away in the breast pocket of his suit jacket and often would rest his palm flatly over his heart, silently uttering a prayer. Everything about him was perfectly neat; hair, nails, clothes, skin, words, mannerisms, orders, he was seemingly perfect and organized from head to toe. He wore a suit like none of the others could and he did it with flair and style. The most memorable thing about Arthur, though, was the loyalty and respect he garnered from his men.

Lancelot sighed once more, slouching into the chair. “I wish you’d stop this,” he mumbled.

Arthur frowned, sipping at his drink as he watched Lancelot lazily reach forward and tap the ashes from his cigarette into a bowl on the table. “Stop what?” he asked, trying to sound as innocent as possible. Lancelot glared, tapping the cigarette and stubbing it out, grabbing Arthur by the collar and tugging him down, kissing him hard, the taste of ashes still on his lips. Arthur surmised that kissing Lancelot like this must be a little like touching Death. Lancelot parted, looking at Arthur sternly. “You know I’m doing this for your own good,” Arthur said quietly.

Lancelot sighed again, heavily put upon. “I don’t  _want_  to be your protégé,” he whinged. “Can’t you just give up and train Dagonet in your stead?”

Arthur laughed. “Lancelot,” he said with an amused smirk, “I don’t give up.”

“I hate that about you as much as I love it,” Lancelot shifted, tipping the glass back and drinking the last of it before setting it down with a  _clink_  on the table, shifting and tugging Arthur atop him, shifting until Arthur could straddle him. He leaned up, intense focus on Arthur’s shirt as he slowly unbuttoned each and every button, pushing the fabric apart. Arthur gave a pleased murmur of enjoyment at the feel of the fabric gliding past his chest and arms.

Arthur tipped the remainder of his whiskey into Lancelot’s mouth, running his index finger over the rivulets of alcohol left on Lancelot’s lower lip. Lancelot pried the glass from Arthur’s willing fingers and dropped it to the carpet, listening to the dull clatter it gave. Lancelot leaned in slowly, tilting his head left, then right, then slowly leaning up and pulling Arthur’s lower lip between his teeth slowly, slipping his tongue into Arthur’s mouth with sweet slowness.

Arthur moaned gently, pressing closer and letting his shirt float to the floor, his palms splayed out on Lancelot’s belt, snagging into the waistband, and tugging to allow the first half of each finger to dip into Lancelot’s trousers and brush against the sensitive skin. He smiled against Lancelot’s lips, closing his eyes and drifting away into the constant, intense heat of the kiss, his hips slowly surging forwards in a constant motion.

“The others are going to pass comment,” Lancelot murmured, his mouth drifting and teeth sinking into Arthur’s neck. “Another posh hotel, another night of expensive sex.”

“Did you slip yourself on the payroll when I wasn’t looking?” Arthur chided lightly. “I put ‘services rendered’ beside your name under those little salary sections. Never have I thought it might be sexual services.”

Lancelot raised an eyebrow, slipping his index finger down his shirt and nodding towards his chest – and though Arthur had the impressive ability to shut out the things he never wanted to hear, he was never one to miss a hint – and Arthur quickly followed suit, unbuttoning Lancelot’s shirt all the way down. Arthur shifted and moved, murmuring words as he went.

“I hope you’re not praying,” Lancelot murmured, each word slow and deliberate as though each syllable had to be rolled around his mouth like a fine wine. “God, I hate it when you pray.”

“In nomine deo,” Arthur smirked, glancing up at Lancelot as he threaded the leather belt out, still ever-sinking to the floor, his hands resting on Lancelot’s thighs. “Oh, dearest Father, forgive me for my sins…”

“You’re  _not_  going to pray…”

“…that I might commit, for ever-loving God, you have given me…”

“Arthur, I didn’t think  _you_  were insane!”

“…this fine man, Lancelot, and bless me as I…”

“Oh God, Tristan gave it to you. Tristan made you insane. I knew we should have locked him aw-ay,” Lancelot’s breath caught when Arthur unbuckled his trousers and pressed his palm against Lancelot’s erection, pushing the fabric of the trousers down to Lancelot’s knees.

“…please him to his heart’s content.”

Arthur looked up, a grin on his face and the slightest of flushes entering his cheeks from the alcohol. He stroked at Lancelot’s erection with lazy fingers, always starting back at the hipbones where he’d started and pushing Lancelot’s shirt apart. Lancelot exhaled, his mouth forming a perfect ‘o’ as Arthur took Lancelot’s cock in his mouth slowly – so teasingly with his lips wrapped around the length, never with enough pressure when he first started. His tongue was here and there, flitting about and applying the tiniest spots of pressure to places that, over time, they had both learned would rile Lancelot’s libido.

“A man on his knees,” Lancelot murmured with an inane grin on his face. “Never did like it.”

Arthur pulled away, long enough to tug Lancelot’s trousers down a little bit more and edge in the created space of nudging Lancelot’s thighs apart. “You just don’t like it when it’s you. You always did prefer to be the one on his back.” He leaned in again and took Lancelot deep into his mouth in one smooth forward lean. Lancelot gasped out loud, his shirt pooling to either side of his chest as he grabbed onto the arms of the chair. His head fell back upon the chair and he closed his eyes.

“Oh,” Lancelot gasped, “ _God_.”

By now, Arthur had a certain smooth and constant rhythm that never faltered and never paused. He took Lancelot deep, always suppressing his gag reflex and pushed his tongue hard against the underside of Lancelot’s cock, pressure always gathering and heavier by the head. Lancelot gripped the chair harder and harder, his hips arching up and pushing himself deeper into Arthur’s mouth – warm and wet and so hospitable and so  _hot_  — until he couldn’t take any more of Arthur’s tongue in perfectly placed spots, pushing and licking and scraping.

He climaxed, stuttering Arthur’s name as he did.

Arthur pulled away and rested on his heels, looking up at Lancelot with a warm smile, his hands reaching for the rosary in his jacket. He tossed it onto Lancelot’s chest – the beads catching on Lancelot’s sweat and remaining still – and grabbed his shirt, doing it up and buttoning every last button with exact precision. Lancelot plucked the rosary off his chest and held it in his palm. When Arthur was done dressing, he stood and grasped Lancelot by the hand, beads between their fingers.

“Are we going to pray now?” Lancelot murmured, his eyes barely open.

Arthur smiled. “I think you’ve invoked His name more than enough for the both of us tonight.”

6.

“Guinness,” Gawain ordered, two fingers in the air to get the bartender’s attention. He sighed and cradled the mug in his hands when the bartender slid it across. Gawain stared at the foamy top, recalling that if Galahad were here, he would insist on taking the first lick, laughing as he did, his entire face lighting up before he ordered another beer for Gawain, ‘so as not to taint your drink’ Galahad would say.

Gawain knew he wasn’t a bad-looking man by appearances. He’d grown his hair out long in a rebellious act against his father who had tried to press Gawain into a stricter lifestyle of neat haircuts, curfews, and honour rolls. He’d preferred smoking by the bleachers, a laissez faire lifestyle and a certain amount of  _fun_  in his life. So he’d grown his hair out long, and when he’d met Tristan, had begun to have fun with it. Tristan would occasionally braid some of the hair, and some weeks, Gawain would simply get dreads. He’d struggled for years at the gym to build up his body from that of a lanky boy into a muscled young man, bulking up just enough to fill out his shirts. He was quick to anger and quicker to being stubborn, a growl always lingering under the surface. Though he’d taken the path of least supervision years ago, always behind him to give him the push was Galahad; before his first cigarette, before his first drink, before his first night with a girl, before his first night with a guy. Every memory of wrongdoing that Gawain possessed also involved Galahad in some way. He’d mellowed out a bit with the age and his new job – one that, for the first time in his life, he neglected to tell Galahad about. He’d grown up well, earning morals as he went along and charming this, that, and the other. Men and women were all familiar to his sheets and his body, but through every pointless, countless tumble in the sheets, he walked away in the morning knowing the same thing; he still wanted Galahad.

“A pint of Guinness,” a female voice mused evenly. The smell of perfume met Gawain’s sense of smell and he turned to find a brunette beauty beside him, sliding into the next stool. “What’s the occasion?”

“None, so far. There isn’t a second drink with someone attached, and only that would warrant occasion,” Gawain replied evenly. “Care to fill that spot for me?”

She grinned, brushing her hair back and crossing her legs. “I’ve heard worse offers.” She ordered two drinks from the bartender, pushing hair behind her ears to reveal sparkling earrings to match a business suit and perfect accessories. “To the booth?” Gawain saluted her with his Guinness and led the way. She slid into the booth and leaned forward on her elbows, narrowing her eyes in scrutiny. In the background, music played almost too loudly for conversation to take place, and the sound of coins in the jukebox kept on distracting Gawain.

“What?” Gawain raised an eyebrow, taking off his coat.

She grinned. “You look like someone I’ve seen before.”

He chuckled softly, willing himself to think about something other than Galahad – and the flush of post-sex he’d had upon climbing in the car, hand lingering just by Gawain’s on the gearshift, just barely there, never touching because of that  _stupid_  rule – and the way he’d offered that cigarette to him so casually, so…

He cleared his throat. “Maybe we should do the introductions and clear up any déjà vu situations?”

“Guin,” she stuck out her hand, which Gawain promptly shook, admiring her grip, “short for Guinevere. My mother was French,” she said in a bored tone, “and decided that Jennifer wasn’t posh enough. And here I am. And you?”

“Gawain,” he smiled. “My mother enjoyed the Round Table far too much,” he admitted self-deprecatingly. He sipped at his drink and relaxed into the booth. “I know I’ve seen you around somewhere. I know it.”

“Well, don’t we know everything,” she mocked, polishing off half her drink in one sip. “You come around these parts often? I hear it’s a bad neighbourhood.”

Gawain smirked, looking at the bartender that he himself hired when Bors handed him training, management and HR for the week. “Bad parts?” he scoffed. “Ma’am, there couldn’t be better bars, pubs, or dives. Trust me, I helped staff this establishment.”

Her eyebrow arched gracefully, almost like a rehearsed movement. “Oh?”

“Oh, indeed,” Gawain responded in kind. “There’s no better.”

“Yes, but the  _neighbourhood_ ,” she stressed. “I’ve heard that the legendary Knights have their base of operations right here,” she whispered the last two words like they were the biggest secrets in the world. All that Gawain could do was press his lips together to avoid smirking. “Terrible lot. Have you  _seen_  them on the telly?” She snorted. “Certainly wouldn’t want them to be caught down an alley with me. I’m the most advanced fighter in all my rec classes. Besides,” she shrugged nonchalantly, “everyone knows that the tattooed one is the scariest.”

“The others…aren’t?”

She shrugged again, polishing off her drink. “Well, we haven’t really seen clear sketches of the others, have we?” She smiled and left a few coins on the table as she stood up, leaning over and pressing a sound kiss to Gawain’s forehead – cold as the weather had been getting outside – before grasping her coat and shrugging it on. “You know, I always hear that they’ll be doing lifetimes if they’re ever caught.” She laughed. “Or, you know, tortured terribly without consent of the law.”

Gawain laughed nervously.

“You just never know when they’ll get caught, right? And then some  _new_  crime league rushes into town,” she continued, sounding as though she were drifting away. “Oh. Well, at least with these killers, we know their motives, hmm? Wouldn’t do to have to figure out a whole new set.”

“Lesser of two evils?” Gawain suggested.

“Perhaps,” Guinevere replied evenly, shoving her hands in her pockets. She tilted her head and studied Gawain’s face again. “You said your name was Gawain, right?”

“At your service,” he tried his best to smile.

She smiled back. “I’ll remember that.”

She walked away and it wasn’t until she was completely out the door that Gawain realized that he’d just struck out for the night, and not only that, but their conversation had taken some very strange turns. He frowned and paid for his drinks, shifting to get up and grabbing his coat. Maybe if he left now, he could entice Galahad into a night of no touching, with some interesting small print to it.

After all, he’d bought the video camera for a reason.

7.

“So, did you fuck him then?” Bors shouted from the kitchen. “What’d you want, beer?”

“Scotch,” Tristan called back evenly. He curled and released his fist, rubbing the pad of his thumb across the tattoos on every knuckle.

Tristan was a mystery. He was the plainest enigma that anyone could ever hope to meet. He’d covered his body with the first tattoo as a dare, and then the second as a proclamation of love, the third as a dare, the fourth as a ‘fuck you’ to a girl, and the rest came naturally – with the gentle, loving touch of hot ink and needles. When he was younger, he’d yearned to do something that mattered, but his idealism went down the drain when he’d watched his parents die in front of his eyes, murdered with the same knife. He’d sworn revenge and two years later – three tattoos later – he’d taken that life with no more than a cold grin. On his shoulders he wore a tattoo of a devil and an angel, his moral compasses burned into his skin. He was lean and his eyes were dark and he was pale and his hair varied between short, half-cut in a messy chaotic arrangement of brown hairs, occasionally longer with the braids that Gawain would invariably put in. He dressed in black and moved with a cat’s grace and he got what he wanted.

He was thinking about getting another tattoo, perhaps to mark the occasion of the new soldier.

Tristan inhaled, giving a cold and pleased grin. “I fucked him,” he called out in addendum, one hand tucked in his pocket, resting on the cold steel of one of his many blades.

“You fuck them all,” Bors chortled, carrying the drinks in and handing the scotch to Tristan. It had just passed noon, their official ‘begin drinking’ hour. “All the young pretty boys who come through that door wind up on their backs at your limited mercy.”

The knock at the door distracted them. Tristan craned his neck up, not actually getting up. “Yes?” he called out. “We’re open, come in.” Bors wandered over to make their newest guest feel at home, directing him to the plush office set with a computer and equipment – things that Dagonet had ‘requested’ nicely with a few well-placed threats. Tristan swung his feet around and stood, tucking all visible weapons away. “How can we help you?”

The man was rotund in the leanest of ways, dressed in black, and carried a portfolio. _Client_ , Tristan deduced, slipping into the spinning chair and leaning forward on his forearms. “What can we do for you today?” Tristan smiled as pleasantly as he could, pushing his scotch aside.

“You can kill someone,” the man said evenly, sliding three black and white photographs across the table. Tristan grinned, his whole face lighting up. “I trust I’ve come to the right place?”

“No better,” Tristan assured, grabbing the phone and dialing Arthur’s mobile. He got the voice mail, rolled his eyes and mouthed ‘Lancelot’ to Bors. “Arthur, it’s Tristan. Get down here when you can. We’ve got a job.” He hung up and leaned back in the chair, hearing it creak and reminding himself to check for loosened screws – Dagonet’s method of getting revenge on them was to allow the others to make fools of themselves by sprawling all over the ground thanks to weakened furniture. Tristan took the photographs and studied the mark; a taller than most man sipping at his coffee in the black and white photograph.

“His name’s…”

“Did I ask for the name?” Tristan looked up from the picture, cold menace in his tone.

The client looked to Bors. “His name is Stevenson. He’s been trafficking drugs from inside our circle. He’s received three warnings, and since he’s not only refused to stop, but has upped his business, we’re making a little bit of an example out of him.” The client dug out some more pictures. “Last week, he killed one of the executives of my…organization. We want him dead. Very much dead.”

“You came to the right place,” Tristan smiled, taking all the pictures and neatening them. “Let’s talk rates, why don’t we?”

8.

Gawain knocked on Bors’ open door that night at nine PM.

Bors hefted the child onto his hip and stared sternly at Gawain in the doorway as he looked past him and the bottle of wine in Gawain’s hands. Vanora was tying Bors’ tie for him, finicky with every fold and knot. “He’s with me,” Gawain shrugged, handing the bottle off to Vanora with a grin and entering the flat, trailed by Galahad – smiling with what was better referred to as a smirk.

Galahad gave a real smile when Gawain turned and tugged his coat off his shoulders without so much as asking to do so. When Galahad actually smiled, there were few able to reject him as he stood. For years – since he was fourteen – he’d never had to beg or plead or ask for companionship. Galahad always got what he wanted. He was hardly vain, but he kept up appearances and he’d also kept up his troublemaking ways. He’d been a good child until the age of six, when he’d discovered that making trouble also meant having fun. He’d known Gawain since they were toddlers and though they had occasional periods where they would drift and go months – and once, two years at a time – without seeing one another, he always wound up back at Gawain’s side; mostly when he was in trouble. It had taken his parents refusing to help him, but their lack of aid was finally bringing a whole new side of Galahad forward. He’d lost weight from not sleeping and whining about his current financial state, but with Gawain’s help – as it always was – he’d gotten back into shape, gone on a spending spree and bought all new clothes for an all new man. He held his head high and he walked with purpose, and if he ever  _really_  wanted anything, he just pouted.

“Isn’t this supposed to be a date?” Galahad drawled lazily, handing Gawain some hangers for the coats and nodding to Dagonet.

“It is,” Vanora confirmed, smoothing her dress and prying the child from Bors’ grip.

Galahad frowned, walking inside slowly. “Why’s he going?” he asked with confusion, pointing at Dagonet. Gawain pinched him hard on the arm. “Ow! Fuck, Gawain!”

“Language!” Bors growled. “Kid, cover your ears,” he nodded to one of the children, who promptly clapped his hands over his ears. “You fucking don’t speak like that in front of my fucking kids. And Dagonet goes with us because he’s part of this family. You. You’re staying here. Gawain, why don’t you put him through the initiation?”

They left one by one; Bors gave Galahad a grin, Vanora touched his shoulder gently, and Dagonet gave him a sympathetic look. Galahad watched the door close, confused to his very core.

“What’s the initiation?” Galahad murmured in confusion as a door was thrown open and four children burst out and joined the one in the room already. The children jumped up and screamed and laughed, immediately swarming Galahad as Gawain collapsed onto the couch and propped his feet up.

“Meet them. Five of ‘em,” Gawain grunted.

“How do you handle them?” Galahad sputtered, pulled to his back by Bors’ eldest while two of the others tugged on his arms. Gawain craned his head to watch the sight, smiling tiredly. They giggled and squealed and found no part of torturing Galahad off-limits. “They’re…they… _hey_!” he shouted at one as they rifled through the pockets of Galahad’s coat. He struggled and finally managed to stand up. “That’s it,” he muttered under his breath. “Who wants a bedtime story!” he announced loudly, clapping his hands together, the scowl never really leaving his face.

The children jumped up and down, cheering as they raced for the bedroom – already wearing pajamas. Galahad wiped at the sweat on his brow and stared incredulously at Gawain.

“This is part of the job,” he said, not really a question, but more an outraged statement. He huffed and stormed into the bedroom while Gawain followed, shrugging as he grabbed a chair, sitting just outside the door. Galahad shut the door gently, turning around with great trepidation at the mere  _thought_  of five children in the same room.

Galahad looked around in the bedroom in awe; every last child had tucked themselves into their beds and each was doing a good job of remaining ever silent. Galahad cleared his throat, running a hand through his hair and straightening the collar of his polo shirt as he grabbed a chair and sat down, crossing his legs.

“Story!” one of the girls demanded.

Galahad rolled his eyes. “Fine.” He took a deep breath and paused to make something up. “Once upon a time,” he started, twirling his hand aimlessly as he exhaled and cursed under his breath. “Once upon a time, there was a prince. This prince lived in the biggest, most expensive, nicest castle in the land and the King and Queen gave to the Prince everything he wanted!” Galahad smiled wistfully, turning his attention to each and every child. “Pets, toys, everything. The Prince grew up and soon, all the girls and boys found they began to fall in love with him, for not only was he the richest,” Galahad grinned arrogantly, “but he was also the prettiest in the land.”

“Wha’ happened to him?” one of the boys yawned.

“So, the Prince went out, away from the castle, but he found himself getting into dark, dark troubles. His gold began to run out and he was forced to do terrible things thanks to a dark Wizard.”

“Was the Wizard evil?”

“Oh, yes,” Galahad replied quickly, his eyes wide and his hands now involved in the storytelling process. He leaned forward. “So the Prince had to find someone who would take him in and teach him how to vanquish the evil Wizard to get his gold back so that he could go home! And the Prince found a group of peasants who could help him, and one in particular that loved the Prince fiercely.”

“Fairy tale love?” one of the girls eagerly asked. “Or like Lancelot loves Uncle Arthur love?”

Galahad hid his grin. “More of the first one, but both, yes,” he acknowledged. “And so, the peasants…and the one who loved the Prince…took him in and taught him the ways of their group and how everyone else lived when they had no King or Queen to raise them.”

“How’d the Prince know it was fairy tale love?” the same girl demanded, her face knit in a pout.

Galahad smiled. “Because while many others loved the Prince for his…considerable good looks and ample charm, they always loved his gold more than they loved him. But the one who loved the Prince was very different. He had loved him from the start and cared nothing for the gold.”

“And they lived happily ever after?” a tiny voice asked hopefully.

“They tried,” Galahad smiled, getting up slowly. “To bed, now,” he ordered softly, turning off the lamps and leaving the bedroom.

He pressed his back to the door and looked down at Gawain with a smile, noting that he’d fallen asleep sometime during Galahad’s storytelling. Galahad looked down with a small smile and leaned over, wrapping his hand around Gawain’s neck – the hair bristling against his fingertips – and pressed a kiss to his forehead. He shuffled off quickly and went straight for the kitchen to find something to eat.

“Gal’had?” a drowsy voice murmured as Galahad opened and closed the cabinets loudly. “You done?”

Gawain stumbled into the kitchen, rubbing at his eyes. Galahad turned, hopping up on the counter and munching idly on a few crackers he’d found in the cabinet. He leaned forward and offered a few to Gawain, swaying his legs as he did. Gawain sat backwards on a chair and looked up at Galahad, almost trying to appear nonchalant. Galahad peered down through long curls – too much product, too much length – and studied Gawain’s face.

They remained locked like that silently.

“You’re good with them,” Gawain finally admitted.

Galahad shrugged. “I told them a story. They shut up. I don’t necessarily see how that’s being  _good_  with children. I’m sure you could do the same thing.” He allowed Gawain a self-deprecating smile and licked his teeth, wanting a drink or a drug, but knowing they were probably off-limits.

“They’re tired of my stories,” Gawain conceded, chewing on his inner cheek. He sighed and looked up at Galahad. “You let Tristan fuck you, didn’t you?” he said, almost immediately. Galahad looked down and didn’t say a word and Gawain took the silence as admission, anger building in him. Gawain growled and kicked the chair as he got up, causing a scrape against the hardwood and a crash of wood against the counter.

“Shit,” Galahad hissed. “The kids!”

“He fucked you!” Gawain raged. He paced around without direction before lunging up to Galahad and standing scant centimetres from him, eyes blazing and fists clenched. “I can’t believe…” he said lowly, eyes narrowed. He placed his hands hard on Galahad’s shoulders, forming a vice grip and pushing him up against the cabinets. Galahad just stared down at him as Gawain moved between Galahad’s open legs, one hand gripping Galahad by the cheek  _hard_  and brushing his thumb across his cheekbone. Galahad breathed heavily as Gawain leaned in even closer, lips barely apart. “He fucked you,” Gawain exhaled painfully. “Why Tristan?”

“No touching,” Galahad reprimanded with a whisper, not moving as Gawain brushed his thumb across Galahad’s cheekbone again and again. He bowed his head forward and sighed, his breath wafting warmly over Gawain’s wrist. “You’re still touching.”

Gawain pulled away with deep regret pulsating through him; he clenched his fists hard, pressing them into his hips. He stared down at the floor and the intersection of small patterns kept his mind off all the things he wanted to do to Galahad. Instead, he took deep breaths and looked up slowly to find Galahad staring at him.

“Maybe we should watch some television?” Galahad suggested quietly.

Gawain shrugged, turning and storming away, grabbing the remote and flicking angrily through the channels, still standing up. For the first time, Gawain felt regret at bringing Galahad into his world. He collapsed into the armchair while Galahad sprawled out on the couch, his shirt riding up and revealing a strip of stomach. Gawain looked away, staring at the television and watching the pointless romantic comedy that was made-for-TV cast a quiet hum into the room.

Gawain sighed. “I don’t care that you sleep around,” he said quietly. “But I don’t understand why it had to be with Tristan.”

“He wanted me,” Galahad replied drowsily, grabbing another pillow and stashing it behind his head. “I don’t understand why you didn’t tell me what your job was. We tell each other everything, we always have.”

Gawain looked over, hair falling over his eyes. “We don’t tell each other  _everything_ ,” he said dryly. “You know that. You get to keep things from me and I get to keep things from you. Then,” he continues with a bite behind the words, “we keep something from each other because we were in our teens and we were drunk and we made a stupid rule. We keep things from each other that we shouldn’t.”

He waited for the response, but received none. Gawain growled and looked over to find Galahad sleeping lightly, mouth parted. He sighed and realized that he couldn’t remain angry and turned the volume on the television down a little lower while rousing himself and grasping the blanket from under the table. He shook his head, draping the blanket over Galahad and smiling affectionately when he curled into the warmth. Gawain crouched beside him, brushing aside a few curls and looking at Galahad’s peaceful sleeping form.

“I’m ready to let go of the rule,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to Galahad’s forehead and stroking his cheek lightly, resuming his position in the armchair again, shifting until he had an equal view of the television and Galahad. He reclined into the chair. “I’m ready to do everything with you,” he said absently to Galahad, “if you’d just let me touch you.”

Galahad turned, whimpering softly in his sleep.

“But not until you give me permission.”

9.

Lancelot swung his sword casually in the large elevator, studying himself in the mirror as they went from the ground floor to the penthouse in the third-tallest high rise in the city. He was surprised that this job was progressing so quickly, but the client had expressed a desire for the job to be done with efficiency and ease, and most important of all, ‘done  _tonight_ ’.

Lancelot studied mirrors like it was a second job. He was vain with a right to be, possessing a fair face, perfect curls – when the right application of product was lathered in – and cheekbones that most models would kill for. Bors often commented that he had an inferiority complex because he liked to go into a job with two swords – the second always handed to him by Arthur – and come out stained with more blood than was strictly necessary. Lancelot would simply smirk back. He’d mastered the nature of overreacting and had somehow managed to snag Arthur into something resembling a relationship along the way. As a result, he became Arthur’s right-hand man, dressing for the part with the nicest of Armani and Prada, leather coats that got replaced every once in a while, and with his status came the advantage of being able to get anything he wanted with the mere request for it. He was a self-proclaimed atheist and proud of it, believing that his time on Earth was his time overall, and he lived to reflect it.

“Who’s the lead on this one?” Lancelot murmured, watching the lights traverse through the thirties on the elevator.

“You,” Arthur replied, gaze up at the very same thing. He opened his coat and handed the sheathed sword to Lancelot. “I assume you’ll want this.”

Lancelot pulled a face, even as he took the sword and tucked it away. “You know I like it better when you throw it to me in the thick of battle. More dramatic. All I need is some overwhelming, heroic music while the slow motion kicks in and I pose in some dramatic stance that makes the whole thing worthy of an award.”

“They don’t give out Assassin of the Year,” Arthur replied with a small, amused smile on his lips.

Lancelot grinned as the doors opened. “Yet.”

Arthur let out a bark of laughter, leading the way down the hallway and stopping outside room 6012. He pressed his back to the right side of the door, taking off his coat and dropping it in a pile on the floor. “Gloves on?”

“Check,” Lancelot nodded, pulling on the skin-tight gloves and flexing his fingers. He handed his coat to Arthur and grasped the winter toque Arthur was holding out for him, pulling the black cap on and covering all his hair perfectly. “Hat, check.” He patted down his body. “No pieces of I.D. on me. I’m good. Cameras?”

“None,” Arthur replied, checking around him as he pulled a cap down over his own hair and pulled on the gloves. “Chemicals ready in case of spilled blood.”

“Paycheque in the mail?” Lancelot teased.

Arthur rolled his eyes. “Knock on the damn door.”

Lancelot smirked back at him and rapped on the door lightly with his knuckles, whistling innocently. He pressed his back to the wall on the left side of the door, eyes glancing over to Arthur and one hand on his sword. The door opened, a man’s voice in the middle of a sentence, saying, “…damn time you got here…”

Lancelot crouched down, surprising the man by tackling him at stomach’s height and withdrawing his sword in one smooth motion as Arthur followed him in the room, shutting the door and withdrawing two guns, shooting the two men in the room in the heart with two shots, eliminating all witnesses of the event. He tucked the guns away and took a step back to let Lancelot work. Lancelot had both swords crossed and resting on the man’s neck.

“Stevenson?” Lancelot growled.

“Y-yes, I’m…I’m,” he stuttered, eyes flickering over the room. “Jesus!” he nearly shrieked. “What the hell is going…”

“Your employer regrets to tell you that you’ve been let go,” Lancelot smirked, slitting Stevenson’s throat with a deep, clean cut of both swords, forming an ‘X’ just above the trachea. Arthur raised an eyebrow and tossed Lancelot a cloth with some cleaning solution on it. Lancelot smiled in appreciation and cleaned off his swords as he stepped away from Stevenson – now gurgling and choking on his own blood on the floor. Lancelot tossed the cloth back to Arthur. “Gun?”

Arthur handed the gun to Lancelot, muttering, “Please stop making jokes. I’ll pay you to stop.”

Lancelot ignored Arthur and cocked the gun, quickly firing the fatal bullet, striking Stevenson in the forehead. He handed the gun back to Arthur after flicking the safety on. “Don’t forget to tell everyone to switch gun types,” Lancelot absently said, studying the corpse. He checked his shoes. “No footprints. You?” He snorted, as Arthur checked his shoes and shook his head. “All this death…just for drug trafficking.”

“You’re getting paid, what do you care?” Arthur murmured, rosary beads rubbing back and forth between his thumb and fingers. “We’re clean. Let’s get out of here. I booked a room at the Four Seasons.”

Lancelot’s face lit up as he sheathed his sword and handed Arthur’s back to him. “My favourite.”

10.

Tristan frowned as his fingers passed over the guns in his daily morning ritual. He tapped the empty space on the cloth and turned, ready to ask Bors if he’d seen the Hawk. Before he could say a word, he found Galahad draped over the chair, legs sprawled in all directions and cradling the gun in his lap. Tristan glared at him, storming forward and grabbing the gun.

“Don’t touch this one,” he warned. “Never touch this one.”

“Spoilsport,” Galahad commented, yawning and turning into the chair, closing his eyes and trying to fall asleep to snatch a few hours of stolen sleep. Tristan glared, lifting up his shirt and sticking his gun at the small of his back. He narrowed his eyes and took another few steps closer to Galahad, straddling him with ease, taking a quick look around to make sure that no one else was around. Galahad grinned. “Mm, this is better than a nap.”

“I don’t think you understand what we do,” Tristan said evenly, leaning back and tightening his vice around Galahad’s hips. “Have you ever punched a man, ever injure someone? Have you ever killed someone?”

Galahad’s face went cold. “Yes,” he replied coolly, struggling slightly.

Tristan eased off slightly, surprise flickering over his features. He raised an eyebrow slowly, fingers stroking Galahad’s neck lightly, absorbing every heartbeat. He flexed his fingers, running his nails down Galahad’s neck and creating thin lines of red. “Self defense?”

“Of course,” Galahad reacted defensively.

Tristan laughed – the same cold, clipped laughter that most people preferred to never hear – and Galahad flinched slightly when Tristan gripped Galahad’s neck with both hands, forming a stranglehold. Tristan began to slowly close his grip and close off Galahad’s windpipe as Galahad struggled, hands gripping at Tristan’s forearms. “Killing is different,” Tristan’s words were quick and quiet. “Killing is being able to do this without blinking, to get to the point where you can do it without hesitation. I can do it easily now.” He leaned in, viciously kissing Galahad even as he gasped for air. “Means I could tighten my grip just enough to close off all your air.”

He released his hold on Galahad, leaning back and resting on Galahad’s thighs. Galahad bent over double, wheezing and trying to catch his breath.

“Are you insane?” Galahad exhaled, coughing hoarsely, one hand flying from its weak grip on Tristan’s forearm to press hard against his chest, thumping hard in an effort to get the air to flow.

“According to the six official tests I took, no,” Tristan smirked, lightly brushing the pads of his fingertips over the red marks on Galahad’s neck. They both knew that Gawain would see the marks, would hate the marks, would probably hit Tristan for it. “But rumour is, I am. I hear there’s a bet about when the psych ward is going to lock me away.”

“I think you’re already insane,” Galahad gasped, even as Tristan stole small kisses, coaxing Galahad’s mouth open with prying fingers. Tristan eased off once more and allowed Galahad to breathe, waiting until Galahad’s breathing was slightly more even. Finally, Galahad took a deep breath and sat up straight, pulling Tristan down on top of him. “God, is this because I took your gun?”

“Yes,” Tristan said simply, snagging his fingers into the waistband of Galahad’s trousers, leaning in and kissing his neck. “And I want to know if you’re ready.”

“Am I ready?”

“I hope so.”

*

The phone rang.

It rang again and again at noon exactly the next day. Dagonet was in the back with the inventory for the pub, preparing to ship it over. Bors was at home with the children. Arthur was with Lancelot in the soundproofed training room. Galahad was sleeping on the couch and Gawain went out when watching him grew too frustrating.

So Tristan picked up.

“How can I help you?” Tristan commented, collapsing into the desk chair and propping his feet up on the desk. He tapped absently on the desk with the eraser of the pencil, flipping it and reclining. “Yes, this is Tristan. No, I’ve not booked any jobs.” He froze, reluctantly releasing the pencil. “When did you want to meet?” He stood, cradling the phone in the crook of his neck as he walked towards the training room, knocking hard on the steel door. “No, I don’t see how it should be a problem, I’m just checking on resources.”

Lancelot pulled the door open, standing there sweating and panting in nothing but a black tank top and tight sweats. Tristan gestured to the phone with one hand and mouthed ‘job for me’. Arthur leaned against his sword, sweat dripping down his face in rivulets and nodded. Tristan grinned, turning around and closing the door on them gently.

“I’m available. When do you need it done? Come over, I’ll buy you a drink at the bar and we’ll talk details. You can have your pick of…” Tristan paused. “Oh. You want me?” he smirked, proud. “Well, you’ve got excellent taste. Might I suggest one of our new boys for the other job you had?”

Tristan grinned, leaning over Galahad’s sleeping form and brushed some curls off his forehead.

“You’ll love him,” Tristan promised.

11.

Arthur called their first official staff meeting of the month at ten at night the next day. It was Galahad’s first meeting with everyone in the same room and he managed to make himself the centre of attention by choosing to wear his kilt that day with his sweater vest and button-down shirt. Gawain couldn’t stop staring, and neither could some of the others, for that matter. Arthur sighed and cleared his throat again, gaining everyone’s attention – standing like a schoolteacher in front of the room.

“Galahad, would you mind just standing at the front?” Arthur snapped sarcastically, rubbing his temples. “Perhaps, then, people would stare at your legs while they half-pay attention to me.”

Galahad blinked innocently. “I’m going to a Scottish festival.”

“Right,” Arthur sighed. He shook his head and collapsed into a chair. “Well, let’s make this brief then. Tristan’s got a job within the week, Galahad and Gawain have one tomorrow. Switch to rotation four of the guns and we need to refill on ammonia for the clean up. Also, please, wash the caps. No need to have hair sticking to the material and leaving behind evidence.”

He threw down a bundle of papers for Tristan and tossed one into Gawain’s lap. “Information and details. Gawain, you do reconnaissance for the two of you. Tristan, it’s up to you to scout it out. Clean jobs get us returning clients.”

“Who’s the customer?” Bors looked up from the parenting book he was reading.

Arthur pressed his lips together. “Mafia.”

“And the target?” Dagonet prodded.

“More mafia,” Arthur evenly responded, not betraying any emotion or hint in his voice. He scratched the back of his neck. “And if Galahad makes it past the first kill, well…we’ll throw him a party.”

“Get him drunk,” Tristan grinned. “Very drunk. Let him lose all his inhibitions.”

“Oh, we know  _you_  will,” Lancelot said dryly, flipping through his mail. “Are we done? I’m bored,” he said, directed straight at Arthur with a clipped tone. He placed the letters on the table with some force and made his way over to the desk chair, sitting and spinning slowly.

Arthur watched him, distracted for the moment. “We’ll meet again soon. Get to work,” he dismissed them absently. He sauntered up to Lancelot’s side, crouching down beside him as he spun in the chair. He rested his hand lightly on the arm, stopping the chair from its rotation. “Train?” Arthur gently requested. Lancelot rolled his eyes and sneered, his lip curling up in disdain. He tried to get up and push the chair back, but Arthur’s hands on the chair prevented him from going anywhere. The others were disbanding and leaving, but Arthur knew what he wanted.

“Arthur,” Lancelot began warningly.

“Please?” Arthur pleaded quietly. Tristan shut off the main lights and gave them a thin-lipped smile as he closed the door behind him, leaving just the two of them standing there in the dim back-up lights. He reached over to the side – his whole body leaning like the tower of Pisa – and grasping his sword, laying it across Lancelot’s lap. “I promise it won’t take more than an hour.”

“That’s what you said yesterday,” Lancelot grumbled, swiftly standing up with sword in hand. “It turned into five hours, the last three of which you actually just wound up pleading with me to consider taking over for you if something happens.”

“When.”

“If,” Lancelot said sharply, unsheathing the sword while Arthur held the door open for him. He balanced the sword between his legs as he removed his shirt, bending over to grasp his new sword and relaxing as Arthur flicked on the lights and the hum of the electricity echoed in the room in the dead silence of their base. He sighed heavily, absently kicking a few of the wooden pieces that Bors had dragged in from the alley. “I hate this,” Lancelot muttered in a mocking tone, his voice echoing with the hints of disgust.

“As you’ve said so many times,” Arthur replied casually, grasping his own sword. “I noticed you were getting showy the other night. I just want to teach you…”

“…to be economical,” Lancelot interrupted, finishing the sentence with Arthur. “Hmm.” Lancelot smirked. “How did I know the end of that tune?”

“This is serious,” Arthur snapped, his voice booming in the confined space.

He lunged forward with the sword, parrying with his anger. Lancelot deftly blocked him, assuming battle stance and doing little more than flicking his wrist to defend himself. Arthur attacked again with fury and Lancelot rejected the advance calmly. They clashed swords, barely inches between them as Arthur glared at Lancelot with an intense look – one that most people only saw right before they died – and Lancelot shivered slightly, a cold chill rushing down his spine as the friction of their swords filled his ears with a metallic cacophony.

“It’s always serious with you,” Lancelot spat on the ground to the side, accusing Arthur as he withdrew, taking a few steps back and circling Arthur with deft steps, making sure to never take his eyes off of Arthur – his gaze flicking down to watch the movement of his hands, his feet, watching for any surprises – and always moving, attacking sporadically to stay on the offense. “ _Everything_  is always serious to you!” Lancelot shouted. “Breakfast, killing, sex, tax returns, afternoons in the park,” he mocked in a drab tone. “You’re boring and you’re serious and you’re fixated on your own fucking death!”

“Then what should I be fixated on?” Arthur shouted back, elbowing Lancelot with the hilt of his sword and catching him off guard.

Lancelot staggered back, coughing slightly as he regained his footing and lunged forward as though he hadn’t been stunned at all. He grasped for the second sword, frowning when it wasn’t in its place and only then did Lancelot notice that Arthur was swinging both swords in circles at his side and advancing. Lancelot locked his jaw, ducking out of the left sword’s blow as he knocked the second sword out of Arthur’s dominant hand.

“Fixate on living,” Lancelot snapped, rolling and grabbing the second sword. He bent his wrists, holding each sword at Arthur’s neck. “Put down the sword,” he threatened lowly. “Put it down and  _listen_  to me,” he growled, body burning with rage.

Arthur relinquished the sword – the weapon spiraling to the ground and clattering loudly. Lancelot didn’t ease off, keeping both swords trained on Arthur’s neck and staring Arthur dead in the eyes. He breathed out evenly, never letting his emotions affect his physical state. He licked at his lower lip, blood pulsating as he bit down hard, almost expecting to bite into it and release the pounding blood.

“You keep doing this, and training me, and preparing me against my wishes,” Lancelot whispered viciously. “Stop it, Arthur. Stop. Stop it because nothing is going to happen to you so long as you keep yourself safe! So  _stop_  this or else I walk out.”

He raised one brow slowly.

“Well?” he asked after a moment of silence.

“Stay,” Arthur conceded with a sigh, raising his palms in surrender. “If it’s between you staying and leaving, I’ll stop for the moment.”

“It’s not just ‘for the moment’,” Lancelot mimicked. “Cease the trainings and your lessons and every damn hint you ever had for me. I don’t care that I’m your second in command. Dagonet can have the job. Dagonet will do well with the job! Me? It’ll fall apart.” He laughed wildly, finally tucking his sword away and handing Arthur the other slowly, abandoning his last physical defense.

“You are my second in command, Lancelot,” Arthur spoke quietly. “I trust you to do the job I trained you to do, one day. One day.”

Lancelot shook his head. “That day won’t come,” he remarked, collapsing onto the wooden table and holding his head in his hand. The lights hummed around them. “I’ll stay,” he muttered. He raised his head to the ceiling, the light splashing over his skin. “I’ll stay.” 12.

Gawain sighed, checking his watch. Galahad had given him a conditional offer.  _If I’m not there by ten, I’m with someone, but I’ll be home by midnight._  It looked like Galahad had chosen someone else over Gawain…as per usual.

“Well, well,” a musical voice interrupted Gawain’s morose thoughts. Gawain looked up to find Guinevere lingering beside his booth. “Look who’s back and miserable as ever.”

She had the beauty part to her and from their conversation, had the brains. If Gawain could trust what she said about her physical prowess, she also had the brawns. Guinevere had graduated with honours from two schools and had promptly went out and made a name for herself. Unfortunately, it was on the wrong side of the tracks. Two years and three suckers known as men later, she was back on the right-doing side of the equation and was trying to make a name for herself in a more reputable world that rewarded success instead of pockets full of illegal cash. She had dark hair that was long and curly and held a certain mysterious air to her that Gawain had only seen in Tristan before. Every single gesture or move she made clearly spoke volumes in body language that she was not to be messed with. Gawain noticed one other truly important thing. She had good taste in beer.

She slid a Guinness across the table.

“Unload your woes,” she said melodramatically, smiling and relaxing on the opposite side of the booth.

Gawain sighed, pushing around his drink and watching the rings on the table obscure into paths of moisture. He took a deep breath and glanced at her warm and willing eyes, wondering if he should be telling these things to a stranger, but he couldn’t talk to anyone about this, and it was building up to a point where he thought it might bubble over and explode.

“Love woes,” he explained, taking a sip of his drink.

She made an amused noise. “A man in  _love_? Surely that must be a myth.”

“It’s true.” He raised his glass to her. “Except I don’t think he wants me, or so all evidence points to that.” He forced a smile. “I just brought him into my workplace. Uh, open position. He started fucking around with a coworker first day on the job,” Gawain complained, finishing off his drink. “The signs are inconsistent and we’ve got the stupidest ‘no touching’ rule in place.”

She made a considerate noise. “And when are you two going to turn sixteen?”

“Not funny.”

She smirked. “I thought it was. So you got him hired, and instead of giving you an appreciative tumble, he turned to your coworker. And now, he’s under the coworker and you’re under the thrall of the blues because you think he doesn’t love you.”

Gawain sighed, checking his watch. “I’m supposed to be working.”

She frowned. “It’s eleven at night,” she remarked defensively. “What work could you possibly be doing at this point?”

“The work never stops,” Gawain forced a smile on his face. If he started now, he could still have his reconnaissance done and be home to see Galahad before two AM, which meant that Galahad might yet be awake and willing to at least talk. Gawain found it maddening. Lately, he didn’t even care if they got off, so long as he got to  _see_ Galahad. He was turning into a bloody woman.

“You really love this man?” she asked as he stood.

Gawain shrugged as he nodded. “Can’t think of a better word to describe it.”

“Well, maybe you should get him out of your workplace. Workplace romances never work,” she advised, sternly shaking her head and allowing wisps of hair to go flying. She smiled up at him, almost dreamily. “What’s his name?”

He raised an eyebrow. “You don’t want to know.”

“I do!” she insisted, eyes bright.

Gawain closed his eyes tightly. “Galahad.”

She snorted with laughter. “You’re kid…”

“No,” Gawain cut her off. “Our mothers were best friends. They both had the damned name fetish. They were best friends, and then Galahad and I became best friends, and now I want to be something more than best friends. Or, well, we can still be best friends, but I want those damn benefits you always hear so much about on television and in those racy shows.”

“Why don’t you tell him?” she asked dryly.

He smirked, raising an eyebrow. “We’re men. We don’t talk.”

13.

The night Gawain was out on reconnaissance, there was a knock at Galahad’s door. Lying in bed with one hand down his trousers wasn’t really a good thing to interrupt and he grunted, groaned, and lazily called out, “open!” figuring the person would wait around in the kitchen. The  _person_  however, was Tristan and wound up leaning against the doorway, gun cradled in his hands.

“Well,” Tristan grinned, staring down at Galahad. “I’ve found you in quite the pretty position.” Galahad raised an eyebrow, exhaling in one push of air and nodded to the gun in Tristan’s hands. Tristan took another step into the room. “My job was in the neighbourhood. Came by to say hello,” he murmured, not so much sitting as gliding onto the bed, the barrel of the gun caressing small circles on Galahad’s bare chest, circling down and around Galahad’s tattoo on his hip. Galahad inhaled sharply, his nostrils flaring as he heard the gun cock slightly and Galahad watched Tristan take the magazine apart, taking out every single bullet save for one.

“I’m not a fan of Russian roulette,” Galahad grunted out, raising an eyebrow until Tristan dropped the last bullet to the ground with a  _clack-clatter_  sound. He continued to stroke himself slowly as Tristan stroked Galahad’s chest with the edge of the gun, always pressing it to his cheek, the metal cooled now and a harsh contrast to Galahad’s flushed cheeks. “Why do you…”

“You and guns,” Tristan interrupted. “I like them both.”

“It’s…strange,” Galahad gasped out, his back arching forward into the edge of the gun as he flicked his thumb over the head of his cock all the while Tristan watched. “You’re strange,” he accused, his other hand thieving the gun away, tucking it under his back – the small of his back just before the swell of his arse, where sweat pooled after trickling down, down, and further downwards.

Tristan grinned, his lips curling quickly. He’d been tiring of just watching anyhow and slipped his hand over the slightly muscled area of Galahad’s stomach, drifting further down and wrapping his fingers around Galahad’s own, guiding them in slow strokes. Galahad inclined his head to the side, gazing up and grinning dazedly at Tristan.

“Do you have a trigger?” Tristan smirked.

“Find out,” Galahad implored with a wide grin, arching up and down, his back rubbing against the gun as he did, climaxing with a loud gasp as Tristan’s fingers teased with the head of his cock, his other hand cupping at Galahad’s balls. Tristan leaned forward, biting Galahad hard on the shoulder and pulling away, grinning and licking all the way up his chest, licking his way into Galahad’s mouth and kissing him hard.

Galahad pulled away, panting hard. “My first assignment is tomorrow.”

“With Gawain, I know,” Tristan murmured, slipping his hand under Galahad’s back to retrieve his gun. “He’s out there all on his own while I reap your benefits.”

Galahad grinned and writhed on the silk sheets of his bed, tilting his head a little to look up at Tristan. “I never gave you that ride.”

“You will,” Tristan replied easily, tucking his gun away inside his overcoat. “I believe in your promises.”

“You hardly know me,” Galahad countered, amused.

Tristan smirked. “I know everyone.”

He walked out and closed the door behind him, never looking back. From there, he wound up descending the stairs to find Dagonet smoking a cigarette and leaning on the frame of the car. Tristan walked briskly, his coat flapping behind him in the wind. Dagonet raised a silent eyebrow as Tristan leaned over and stole the cigarette for a drag, inhaling as though the cigarette were holy and he was at prayer.

“He’s trouble,” Dagonet murmured evenly.

Tristan laughed, once. “You just don’t like him because he’s a better driver than you.” Dagonet shrugged. “He’s got his first kill tomorrow. If he fucks up, he’s fucked. It’s the nature of the beast.”

Dagonet stood tall and proud, as he always did. He wore browns and dark greens and blacks like no one else his build could – and an impressive build at that, having spent hours a day in the gym developing his biceps and a body that most would swear was pure muscle. He’d been a small boy and he’d grown into a big man, but somewhere along the way discovered that he didn’t enjoy violence, but found that it could be necessary. Now, with his head shaved nearly bare and one earring in his upper left ear, he was the picture of a threat, but only when someone decided to lay a harmful hand upon him. He preferred silence to talking and preferred knowledge to the bliss of ignorance. He also preferred to always be there, if only in the background, if only to know what was going on – standing behind Arthur, one hand on a weapon, always ready, always prepared. Few spoke aloud of their ends, but most acknowledged that Dagonet would be by Arthur’s side until his end, loyal to a fault.

“Get in,” Dagonet sighed heavily, knowing he had a pile of paperwork to complete back at the base so that when tax time rolled around, he didn’t have at least three of the others begging him at all possible hours of the day for help. “I hope he got you off, I’m not in the mood tonight,” he growled in addition, revving the engine in frustration as he drove them off, not saying another word to Tristan, not even when Tristan responded with:

“He’ll do that soon enough.”

14.

Gawain parked the car down the long driveway that wound around the house and led into the backyard – not letting Galahad drive on the way there in case his nerves got the best of him. He gazed up at the house, knowing that the back door would be open for about two minutes when the maid took out the trash at nine PM. “Are you sure you’re…” Gawain leaned over to ask Galahad.

“Yes,” Galahad snapped. “Stop asking that.”

“I’m sorry to  _care_ ,” Gawain snapped back. “It’s your first kill. There are legends and horror stories about the first kill.”

“How did yours go?” Galahad leaned over to whisper in Gawain’s ear, ducking down when the mark looked out his office window. He managed to turn a perfectly normal and genuine smile into a smirk. “You never did tell me.” He cocked his head to the side, unbuckling his seatbelt to slide lower in the leather seats of Galahad’s car – his own car, not the ‘company’ Jaguar that Tristan had set him up with. “Did you end up in bed with Tristan?” Galahad whispered, the car lights flashing on as Gawain rested two fingers on the handle, opening the car and stepping out, ducking behind the door and shutting the car door quickly.

“No,” Gawain peeked up from the side of the car, pulling his toque on and throwing the other one to Galahad with some force. “Dagonet.”

Galahad sputtered with laughter as he tucked his curls under the woolen hat. “Dagonet?” he whispered with amused glee. “You lot really are fucked up.” He hopped out of the car via Gawain’s side –without use of the door, aided by the top being down on account of Galahad enjoying the feel of it in his hair – and slipped on his gloves. “Was he any good?” Galahad asked, morbid interest colouring his voice.

“The adrenaline makes you do funny things,” Gawain grunted.

Galahad gave a lopsided grin. “Funny, hm?” Gawain sneered and Galahad seemed to delight in that, sliding down against the black finish of the car and tucking the last curls of his hair under the cap. Gawain bit his lip in envy as he watched Galahad withdraw his sword and check that it wasn’t stuck on its casing. Galahad grinned and tucked his sword away while Gawain checked his watch, his eyes always flitting between Galahad and the house.

“Any minute now,” Gawain whispered, his heart beating about three times its normal speed. He leaned over, wanting and wishing to kiss the breath out of Galahad, but knowing that he couldn’t do that. He gave a frustrated growl and got out his gun, keeping it pressed against his hip and ready to fire in case of complications. He shifted and stood when his watch began to beep. He nodded to the house. “Let’s go, Prince Charming. Time for the ball.”

Galahad positively beamed as he tucked his sword away and led the way, Gawain always trailing behind. The moment Gawain knocked out the maid and waltzed through the door, everything turned into a blur. He watched Galahad go through the motions, he watched Galahad do the job well. He couldn’t recall another instance when time blurred as much as it did – except for possibly the first time he and Galahad had physically fought – but the event passed before his eyes like he was only an audience and never a leading role.

Then he watched as Galahad slumped into the driver’s seat of the car, breathing hard, eyes alight on Gawain. “Get in,” he ordered with a growl, throwing his gloves and cap in the backseat. “Get in  _now_.”

Gawain raised an eyebrow, sliding into the seat and not even having time to buckle up before Galahad hit the gas and drove away. Gawain looked back, worried they’d left tire marks, but there wasn’t a black smudge to be seen.

“What are you doing?” Gawain sputtered.

Galahad turned and licked his lips. “Just wait.”

“Get back to the base,” Gawain ordered when he found his breath. “Have to file the report.”

Galahad took the next turn, not being cautious or  _anything_  of the like as he banked hard into the turn. Gawain braced himself against the car door and swore under his breath, only then noticing that Galahad’s breath had been steadily increasing as the minutes were passing. Gawain snuck a glance over; noting the heave to Galahad’s chest as he breathed raggedly, lower lip firmly ensconced between his teeth and getting more chewed by the moment.

“Galahad, are you…”

“Gawain, shut up,” Galahad replied tersely. “We’re almost there.”

He parked without show – something that was new for Gawain to behold what with Galahad’s tendency for exhibitionism – and nearly flew out of the car in his exit, slamming it shut and hurrying to get inside.

“Come on!” Galahad beckoned urgently.

Gawain sighed, wondering what all this rush was for. He followed slowly, making sure to put the roof back up and checking that the doors were locked before he trailed inside after Galahad, closing the heavy door behind him and locking it, just in case. He never took his eyes off of Galahad, making sure that he wasn’t going to have a bad reaction to his first kill.

Gawain thought back, trying to put the events into some kind of timeline. He noted that Galahad’s breathing hadn’t slowed since the car ride – faster and more packed with close calls than Gawain had experienced in a while – from the mark’s flat to their base of operations. Gawain would have been more worried, but he recalled  _his_  first kill as well. Gawain leaned against the steel of the door as he watched Galahad pace around the darkened and empty room, his fingers absently stroking his sword and looking up at Gawain every once in a while, lips parted.

“You okay?” Gawain asked quietly.

Galahad didn’t answer, but his breath became progressively shorter, his strides larger as his fingers began caressing the blunt edge of the sword with longer, harder strokes. Gawain raised an eyebrow, his own breath stopping short in his throat as he became incredibly aware of the way his own body heaved with every inhalation and collapsed with the exhalation. It didn’t help when Galahad began shedding himself of his leather duster, throwing it aimlessly on the floor, nothing but the black tank on Galahad’s torso and Gawain could  _see_  the bite mark that Tristan had given him on his shoulder just the night before – not that Galahad spoke of it, but Gawain knew how to put the pieces together.

“Galahad,” Gawain tried again, swallowing back the moan in his throat.

The clatter of the sword on the floor was Gawain’s only response and Galahad was done pacing then. He stared at Gawain, a small predatory smile just lurking on the corners of his lips as he took even steps forward, never once pausing, never once stopping as he pressed Gawain up against the door and immediately bit down hard against Gawain’s shoulder, evoking a sharp cry as Galahad licked up to Gawain’s earlobe, working it with his teeth while his hands made quick work of throwing Gawain’s sword to the floor.

“What…” Gawain panted hard, “about no…”

“Fuck that,” Galahad growled. “Fuck me.”

Gawain moaned, a visceral shudder plaguing his body as Galahad’s words shot straight to his groin, his cock twitching. He threw ‘no touching’ out the window and grabbed Galahad by the biceps, kissing him furiously – teeth clashing together and thrusting his tongue into Galahad’s mouth – and backing him up quickly until Galahad’s heels hit the couch and they tripped onto the adjacent chair, collapsing in a pile of limbs, but never once stopping their hands from groping or their mouths from kissing, or – and most importantly – their hips from grinding.

“Gala…” Gawain tried to moan into Galahad’s mouth, but found his attention couldn’t even last that long when Galahad pressed his palm against Gawain’s erection, stroking it through Gawain’s tight trousers. Gawain screwed his eyes shut tight and gasped out a moan, rocking his hips up against Galahad’s and fumbling to get his trousers off. “God, Christ,” he swore under his breath. He shoved the trousers to the ground as the chair rocked slightly, Galahad’s lips sucking on his neck, occasionally biting. Gawain’s mouth dropped open wide as a loud moan shot through him, catching him by surprise.

“Do you know,” Galahad exhaled into Gawain’s ear, hot breath wafting over the lobe and drifting down Gawain’s jaw, “how long I’ve hated that  _stupid_  no touching, no names, no talking about it rule?”

“Why didn’t you say something?” Gawain growled, ripping Galahad’s tank in three pieces in an effort to get it off. He threw the shreds on top of his trousers, forming a pile on the floor. Galahad pouted wantonly beneath Gawain and Gawain abandoned the issue, running one hand through Galahad’s curls and gripping as his other hand grabbed Galahad’s leather trousers and slowly worked him out of them with the help of Galahad’s eager hands and the wiggling of his hips. “God, why do you wear these things?” Gawain panted, leaning down and grazing his teeth over Galahad’s nipple, his dreads tickling Galahad lightly. He brushed his fingers over the small tattoo on Galahad’s hipbone – the cursive G with a sword pierced through it – and shook his head in awe.

“I know they work you up,” Galahad whispered coyly, sucking on Gawain’s index finger, slowly relinquishing it and moving on to the middle, the ring finger.

Gawain stared down at Galahad. “You wear them for  _me_?” and shifting his hand over until he could grasp Galahad hard by the hip, steadying himself for the moment. Galahad relinquished his ring finger and licked his lips, nodding slowly. “The…the leather, and the sleeveless tops and the tight shirts and,” Gawain closed his eyes tightly, “and when you wore the traditional kilt?”

Galahad grinned madly. “I caught you staring at my thighs,” he nipped at Gawain’s lips, rocking harder and causing the chair to sway slightly on its’ wobbly legs.

“I wasn’t the only one,” Gawain murmured, finally tugging Galahad’s socks and leather trousers completely off with slight difficulty. Galahad’s hands were making quick work of neatly undoing every button of Gawain’s navy-blue button down, eyes fixated on every hint of skin that was revealed as the cloth parted more and more. Gawain growled and pushed the shirt off, popping the last two buttons off when Galahad wasn’t doing it fast enough.

Gawain threw his shirt away with some force and gave a feral grin as he bent down and picked up one of the tattered pieces of Galahad’s ruined tank, his other hand stroking Galahad’s body and admiring how very  _nice_  it was this close. He grasped both ends of the cloth and held it taught, tying it around Galahad’s eyes – and Galahad’s hips surged upwards in graceful tandem with Gawain’s fingers tying careful and perfect knots and obscuring Galahad’s vision. Galahad’s grin lit up his entire face and Gawain laughed at the pleasure on his face, licking across his jaw and into Galahad’s mouth, biting down on Galahad’s lower lip.

“Did you replace no touching for no seeing?” Galahad whispered mischievously as Gawain shifted until his knees were on either side of Galahad’s hips, rocking forward once – almost violently – and evoking a moan from both of them, cresting and quieting. Gawain took Galahad hands in his own, meshing their fingers together before loosening and then guiding Galahad’s hands lower between them until Gawain was controlling Galahad’s hands, guiding every moment as he stroked his cock. With every stroke of Galahad’s cock, the final brushing motion contacted and grazed Gawain’s in their close proximity.

Galahad’s grin beamed and dulled with every touch, changing with the movement of Gawain’s hands and reflecting whether Gawain was touching Galahad or not – often punctuated with gasps and moans. Gawain focused more attention to the head of Galahad’s cock, earning a more concentrated look on Galahad’s face, his mouth parted open. Galahad inhaled sharply, wheezing gasps of breath as he leaned forward and pressed his forehead to Gawain’s shoulder, the frayed material of the blindfold tickling at Gawain’s collarbone.

When Gawain inhaled, he breathed in Galahad’s scent as Galahad grazed his teeth across Gawain’s shoulder and bit down hard as he climaxed, Gawain’s thumb rubbing quick, firm circles around the head of Galahad’s cock before going to stroke his own in languorous, familiar motions.

“Gawain,” Galahad murmured. “Slip my blindfold off a moment.”

Gawain narrowed his eyes, but did as requested. Galahad peered down, studying before shifting, turning until Gawain was beneath – the chair constantly creaking under them – and no sooner than Galahad shifted a slight bit, but the chair collapsed under their weight. They paused and Galahad snorted while Gawain burst into amused laughter, his head tipping forward and his hair falling in his eyes as the humour washed over him. The laughter soon trickled away and Gawain recalled the more pressing nature of the moment as Galahad slipped off the broken chair and slid down, parting Gawain’s legs widely and shifting so that the blindfold covered his eyes once more. By feel, he stroked Gawain’s cock a few times before navigating his way with the blindfold on and taking Gawain’s cock into his mouth.

Gawain gasped loudly, clutching onto the arms of the chair. So many times he’d thought about this, but never realized that Galahad might be so good with his mouth. His chest heaved with his breath as Galahad took him deeply, but seemed to focus the firmer press of his tongue to the head of Gawain’s cock, always evoking the shortest of breaths from Gawain. Galahad’s movements were smooth and almost practiced as he pressed his tongue hard to the head of Gawain’s cock, lips forming a perfect circle around Gawain’s cock. Gawain climaxed as Galahad curled his tongue slightly, shifting and taking Gawain as deep as he could, lips trailing hard against Gawain’s cock as he did. Gawain’s back arched and he gripped the chair to steady himself, his nails digging deep into the fabric.

When he looked up again, Galahad had slipped the blindfold off and was licking his lips, pleased, crawling on top of Gawain and haphazardly sprawling out in Gawain’s lap.

“We’ve made a mess,” Gawain whispered, laughing with sated relief.

Galahad grinned back, nuzzling Gawain’s neck. “Come on,” he said, standing up and offering Gawain his hand. “You haven’t lived until you’ve had sex in my silk sheets.” Gawain took his hand and allowed himself to be hauled into Galahad’s waiting embrace. “You  _really_  haven’t lived,” Galahad whispered, “until you’ve had all-night sex in my silk sheets.”

“If you keep talking, we’ll only have the morning left,” Gawain growled in return.

“I’m already leaving,” Galahad smirked, pulling on his leather trousers – and no pants, never any pants with him – and hopping into them as he went, grabbing his coat, but leaving the sword. Gawain shook his head and picked it up for him as he struggled to dress and walk at the same time.

“By the way,” Galahad turned in the doorway, framed by the moonlight. “New rule. Lots of touching, lots of names, and  _plenty_  of talking about it after.”

“I’d rather talk about it now. Get in the car. Silk sheets later,” Gawain growled, advancing and biting at Galahad’s neck. “We’ve got a report to fill out. Head to our place for clothes, then the club, page Arthur and Lancelot, and god, keep your coat off.”

“Yes, sir.”

15.

Lancelot pushed through the throngs of people, scowling at Arthur as the lights flashed in his eyes. “They said they were here? How long ago?” he shouted, pushing aside several men and women who immediately latched onto him, trying to tug him onto the dance floor. Lancelot shrugged them off. “I’m with him!” he bellowed above the music, gesturing clumsily to Arthur.

“One hour,” Arthur said back, his mouth nearly latched onto Lancelot’s ear. “You used to love it here.”

Lancelot ignored Arthur’s comment as he stopped, people flowing past him like water. He pointed to the dance floor, eyes wide as his vision seemed to zoom in on them. “There,” Lancelot pointed with more vehemence. He turned wildly, making sure that Arthur was looking in the right direction. “There!” he repeated, staring in awe as he watched Gawain slide down Galahad’s body – leather trousers on Galahad – and coming up to grind their hips together. “Fuck, they get me going,” Lancelot swore to himself, adjusting slightly as his trousers began to feel too tight. Arthur gave him a nudge to get him going again, pushing him onto the dance floor. Lancelot’s gaze was fixated as Galahad ran his fingers through Gawain’s hair, pulling him close, their bodies grinding and creating friction to the bass beat of the music.

“Christ, could you two please be a little less exhibitionistic!” Lancelot yelled, getting Gawain and Galahad’s attention. They turned as one, Gawain’s arms wrapped around Galahad’s hips. Lancelot raised an eyebrow. “I see it went well.” He smirked. “And that there’s touching now. How cute!” he enunciated his words, loud above the music.

“It went well,” Gawain relayed to Arthur, swaying to the music and digging his fingers into Galahad’s trousers. “There’s drinks in our usual booth if you’re thirsty. The report is in my coat!”

Galahad opened his mouth, mischievous grin on his face. Lancelot turned without waiting to hear what Galahad was saying. He slid into the booth and dug through Gawain’s pockets to find the stapled folds of paper. Lancelot flicked through the corners of the paper, rifling through the filled out forms that Gawain had finished, scrawled writing everywhere and checks where checks should be. Lancelot absently discarded his coat as he read, not surprised when he felt familiar hands on his shoulders. Lancelot turned, raising an eyebrow and handing the report to Arthur.

“Galahad says he wants a dance,” Arthur pressed a kiss to the top of Lancelot’s curls and relaxed, reading through the report.

Lancelot laughed into his beer – tiny bubbles surfacing as he did – as he glanced out to the dance floor, locking gazes with Galahad and receiving a lascivious wink, even as Gawain did incredibly possessive things to his neck that appeared to cause more pain than pleasure, but Galahad was acting as though he’d found bliss.

“Report looks good!” Lancelot shouted above the music, hating that even when he was comfortable, the first thing that popped into mind when it came to conversations was _work_. “What do you think happened with them?”

Arthur shrugged, sipping at his drink. Lancelot turned his gaze back to the dance floor and watched Gawain lead Galahad out of the crowd towards them. Lancelot shifted into the booth, pressing his hip up against Arthur’s and slipping one hand around Arthur’s lower back casually – a sign that they were all right. Gawain slid into the booth and Galahad slipped right into his lap, grasping one of Gawain’s hands in his own and sucking at the tips of each finger.

“Galahad fell down and broke his crown and Gawain went tumbling after?” Lancelot said snidely, a smirk on his face.

“Galahad went down,” Galahad corrected, his words slipping past Gawain’s fingers, every syllable slurred, “and broke the rule and Gawain came sprinting towards Galahad to fuck the breath out of him.”

“Too much,” Arthur groaned. “Please stop now while I don’t have a crystal clear image in mind.”

Galahad bit his lip and curled into Gawain a little more. “Arthur, will you order me another drink?” he asked coyly. “I promise to stop.”

“Galahad,” Gawain grumbled, nudging him in the side. “What did we talk about?”

“Stop whoring,” Galahad rolled his eyes and pouted slightly.

“You’ll have to mind ‘im,” Gawain slurred, sniffing as he grasped another mug of ale. “He’s drunk. And he took some E before we came.” Galahad craned his head around – lolling like a rag doll – and beamed up at Gawain, leaning in for a kiss. Gawain ruffled Galahad’s hair affectionately, his smile never leaving his lips. Lancelot rolled his eyes, scoffing at the display.  _One day, they’re not touching, the next they can’t stop. Then again, maybe it was all the alcohol and the drugs at fault._

“Can we go?” Lancelot whispered into Arthur’s ear. “Leave the two fuckbirds alone.”

Arthur checked for his wallet, digging out a cheque and handing it to Gawain. “Your commission. For you both. Tristan’s getting a bit more for the same job later in the week, but only because he’s working solo.”

Gawain took the cheque in hand and studied the figure, letting out a low impressed whistle. Galahad was distracted, sipping idly at Arthur’s drink, but when Gawain forced the cheque into Galahad’s line of sight, he squirmed slightly out of Gawain’s lap and let out a victorious cry.

“That’s half my debt!” he announced ecstatically, turning and pressing both hands to Gawain’s cheeks, kissing him hard. “Thank you, thank you, thank you,” he murmured swiftly between kisses, shifting until he was straddling Gawain – his lower back knocking up against the table every time he rocked up against Gawain and his body descended – and pushing his tongue deep into Gawain’s mouth, both hands running through Gawain’s hair.

Lancelot rolled his eyes once more, feeling as though he’d already used up his capacity to do that for the month. He nudged Arthur once again when it looked like Galahad wasn’t going to come up for air anytime soon and Gawain didn’t look to be breaking the kiss either, what with the moans he was letting loose, hands slipping down the back of Galahad’s leather trousers.  _Though…if they were going to go at it,_  Lancelot supposed, _it wouldn’t hurt to have a front row view of the…_

“Fine, we’ll go,” Arthur cut into his thoughts, tugging Lancelot when his gaze had become fixated on Galahad and Gawain.

Lancelot gave a frustrated growl.

“You didn’t want me watching,” he hissed as they left.

Arthur remained silent.

“Silence is guilt,” Lancelot teased in a lilting voice. He nudged Arthur teasingly, poking him in the arse, prodding at the shoulders as they ascended the stairs and headed for the street. “Come on, not just even a little voyeurism?” Lancelot snorted, pushing past the heavy steel exit door and digging the car keys out of his pocket, handing them to Arthur. He raised an eyebrow when Arthur turned and raised his eyebrows as though in a challenge. “Fine. I’ll just leave the camera on in the training room.”

“Get in the car,” Arthur sighed.

16.

Gawain passed the joint back over to Galahad, staring up at the stars. They were supposed to be at the base for a quick meeting regarding some of the mail that came in, but that wasn’t for an hour. Gawain and Galahad had slept the whole day between silk sheets, sleeping off the remnants of lingering drugs and alcohol.

“You know,” Gawain drew out his words slowly, watching Galahad cradle the joint between his lips and take a long drag, the muscles in his neck contorting. Galahad exhaled and Gawain watched the smoke curl up. “I’m surprised.”

They were sitting in the back seat of Galahad’s convertible – his sixteenth birthday present – with the top down, parked up in the middle of nowhere and just looking upwards. Their coats were draped over the front seat and Galahad sat there in his jeans and black button down, fingers absently playing with the collar of Gawain’s t-shirt, stroking down to play with the waistband of his trousers. Galahad’s head was resting on Gawain’s shoulder and they’d both gotten high a long time ago – each inhalation now just maintaining their state. The moon was bright and Gawain felt, for the first time in a very long while, wholly and actually content.

“Surprised?” Galahad murmured into Gawain’s neck, his voice making pleasant vibrations against Gawain’s throat. “Why?”

“You didn’t blink once,” Gawain replied, his fingers burying themselves into Galahad’s hair and slowly, slowly stroking. “Not a blink, not once, no blinking. You killed and you walked away and then you jumped me ever so nicely…”

“Surprised about that?” Galahad interrupted. “That’s been a long time coming.”

“Surprised,” Gawain echoed, giggling slightly. “S’funny word,” he growled into Galahad’s ear. “Surprised,” he repeated again and again until Galahad’s lips on his own quieted him. He moaned happily into the kiss and when Galahad pulled away and resettled himself, he shifted slightly so that he could lie down and tug Galahad on top of him. “And glad,” he added. Galahad shifted, his hand down Gawain’s trousers and the other taking another long drag, handing the joint to Gawain and tilting his head to the sky, exhaling. “You have no idea how long I’ve dreamt of you.”

“Years?” Galahad whispered, nuzzling his face into Gawain’s neck and kissing down, sucking and biting every once in a while and evoking sharp cries and small gasps from Gawain. “Bet it was years,” Galahad mumbled into Gawain’s skin, grazing his teeth all the way down. He handed the cigarette to Gawain and used both hands to lift the shirt off Gawain’s head – aided by Gawain’s arms straight above his head, leaning against the frame of the car. Galahad threw the t-shirt into the front seat and sunk lower, sucking on Gawain’s nipples and biting, bringing them to a peak and then running his tongue over them hard, his mouth wrapped around them and teasing them until they were red with attention in the form of bites.

Gawain continued to take drags, watching Galahad undress him with striking efficiency, tugging his socks off and sucking on each of his toes with a punch-drunk, high-happy grin to his face, pulling away and giggling lightly. “Toe feet,” he whispered, his eyes bright and beaming as he shifted and lunged forward, just to unbutton Gawain’s trousers and tug the zipper down with his teeth, growling slightly as he yanked the trousers off and threw them to the floor of the car with little show.

“I heard at nights,” Galahad continued to whisper, fingers teasing the waistband of Gawain’s boxers. “Just after we started what we did, that time you caught me on my bed, writhing with my hand under the sheets.” His breathing was getting heavier and he quickly stole the joint away for a few quick, desperate drags. He exhaled quickly, gazing down at Gawain like a predator. “You moaned my name. I knew then. Oh, God, I knew.” He took another hit, closing his eyes tightly and giggling. “I’d have slept with you before, but you seemed so…happy…with our arrangement.”

“Get undressed,” Gawain ordered, stealing back the joint. “No more of this until you’re naked.”

“You’re not naked!” Galahad replied indignantly, reaching and grasping for the cigarette, which Gawain kept out of reach, dangling above his head as far as he could get it. With his other hand, Gawain snagged his thumb inside his boxers and gave them a hard yank, expecting Galahad to do the rest. As expected, Galahad bowed his head forward, his fingers making quick work of tugging off the boxers and throwing them to the floor of the backseat. Galahad gave a pleased grin as he shifted and straddled Gawain, unbuttoning his own shirt as he went, revealing a larger and larger triangle of skin as he did. Gawain stared, transfixed as the shirt finally disappeared from sight and then there were only the jeans – Galahad having gone barefoot hours ago, ‘I enjoy the night breeze’ he’d said as he curled up his toes – because Galahad never wore underwear when he knew he was going to have sex. Galahad sighed happily as he shoved his hands down his jeans, unbuttoning them from the inside and pushing the zipper down, shifting to get out of his jeans and in the process, rocking against Gawain and creating friction, hard denim against skin.

Gawain nearly flailed as he tried to bring the joint back into smoking distance, turning it and placing it between Galahad’s lips – who cradled it easily, inhaling and freeing a hand to take it out of his mouth, handing it back to Gawain – before Galahad rose up on his knees to shove his jeans down a little more, always lowering by the smallest of inches.

“Every night, I heard you, rustling in the sheets. Even if we’d done something,” Galahad’s breath caught when Gawain’s hand stroked him hard, just once and he gave a pleased moan, “even if I’d watched you get off before,” his voice was getting more and more strangled with every word. “I could hear you with your sheets and the way you moaned my name, because we said no names, Gawain. We were so drunk when we decided and we said no names,” his words were more rushed now as he took back the joint, inhaling deeply – embers lighting up at the tip, Gawain’s focus torn between the brilliant bright orange and the look of sheer ecstasy on Galahad’s face – and murmured “Fuck, s’good,” as he coughed. “No names, no names, but all I heard was you moaning mine.” He coughed again, giving the joint back to Gawain and kissing him hard, stealing Gawain’s breath from him as they both tasted the sweet tang of the weed on each other’s lips, the distinct taste filtering its way into their mouths, lingering on their tongues and ferreting into every crevice.

“Galahad,” Gawain said, his voice throaty from every inhalation from the joint. “Moan my name. Cry it, breathe it, taste it, do everything you want with it.”

Galahad shifted until he was on his arse on the opposite side of the backseat and sliding the jeans off completely, tugging a condom and a small bottle of lube from the back pocket and holding the lube in one hand, the condom between his teeth. He grinned and lazily crawled atop Gawain, kissing him and stealing the joint, taking a drag before carefully placing it between Gawain’s lips and sinking, unwrapping the condom and fitting it onto Gawain’s cock, straddling Gawain once more so that he had some room between their bodies and uncapping the lube, covering three fingers and slowly stroking his own opening, pushing the fingers inside and letting out a swift and loud cry, broken and echoing in the air. When he took another breath, it was shaky and his fingers were shaking as he bent his fingers and stroked his knuckles across Gawain’s collarbone, watching him take drags.

“Come on,” Galahad urged. “Fuck me,” he swiftly said, tugging Gawain into a sitting position and pulling him back down until he was atop Galahad, their positions reversed. Galahad brought his knees up, pushing Gawain a slight distance away – and Gawain took the opportunity to take another drag of the ever-lessening joint – as Galahad caressed Gawain’s chest with his toes. “Fuck me,” Galahad repeated, both words slow and his mouth stretching every letter. He wrapped one ankle around Gawain’s neck, the other locking and the both tugging Gawain closer. “Please?” he grinned, biting down hard on his lip. Gawain took another drag of the cigarette and placed it between Galahad’s fingers, placing his hands on Galahad’s thighs instead, just touching them as he stared in awe, in wonder, and then lined up, pushing in with a hard thrust, earning an “Oh, God, fuck, Christ!” from Galahad. Gawain shifted his hands to the frame of the car and looked down.

“Blasphemous,” Gawain uttered with a grin, pushing in even though he’d been waiting for Galahad to stop shifting and thrusting his hips up. He leaned in, kissing Galahad hard – teeth smashing together in an ugly sound that turned into tongues vying for dominance and then simply Gawain’s tongue exploring Galahad’s mouth and as far down the throat as he could get. He thrust with even pushes, gasping every time he was met with indescribable warmth and an echoing moan from Galahad. He pushed in and placed the joint in between Galahad’s lips for him to take the last drag before flicking it into the brush and exhaling in hard exhalations of breath as he continued thrusting deep into Galahad.

Galahad moaned out, whispering Gawain’s name again and again, his nails digging crescents into Gawain’s forearms, scraping and scratching and creating lines of red. He dropped one hand to his cock and stroked hard – fast movements to match Gawain’s pace – his body shaking and arching forward violently as he came.

“Gawain,” Galahad said fiercely, saying his name like he owned it. “Gawain, I dreamt of you too,” he whispered, leaning up and kissing Gawain hard. “And your name passed my lips behind alleys, in strip clubs, in pubs, and I dreamt of you.”

Gawain came, shouting Galahad’s name.

17.

Bors let out a sharp cry of pain. “Ah, oh god, right there ‘Nora, right there,” he winced, his eyes wide and tilted towards the ceiling. “That is a right spot of pain,” he growled towards Dagonet, who sat in the corner mending up one of the children’s shirts. He sighed and pressed his chest into the couch under Vanora’s strong hands. “That’s the last time I let Arthur talk me into training, the very last, Christ, Vanora, what are you doing, torturing me?” Bors let out a yelp of pain, taking a good bit of time to settle down.

“You’d enjoy torture more,” she snapped back, knuckles digging into his shoulders. “Least that way, you’d have your stories.”

“Dag,” Bors growled, “back me up. What she’s doing looks painful, aye?”

“It looks like the woman you love is giving you a nice massage,” Dagonet replied evenly, folding the mended piece of clothing. Vanora gave him a brilliant smile and poked once at Bors’ spine before leaning over to steal a chaste kiss from Dagonet’s lips. Bors growled and shifted, letting out a high note of pain when he shifted the wrong way.

“You’re just saying that because she promised you one next,” Bors muttered.

Vanora beamed, placing the heel of her palms along Bors’ lower back. “Actually,” she whispered, “Dag promised  _me_  one.”

Bors grunted again, shifting and grasping his shirt, pulling it on. He rolled his neck forward and to the sides, getting a good reaction and cracking every last bone from the sounds of it. He stretched slightly and checked his watch. One glance back to the table and Vanora was tying her hair in a loose knot, wisps falling over her eyes. Bors smiled affectionately, pressing his forehead to hers and lightly pressing his palms against her stomach, splaying the fingers.

“Any kicking yet?” he whispered, breathing in the smell of her perfume – an odd mint mix lately, like she’d combined her perfumes with her cooking. He closed his eyes, focusing on just breathing her in. He took a few minutes a day to do that, no matter what scent was sticking to her skin.

She smiled, hands on his hips. “Not just yet.”

“When he does, you tell me,” Bors warned her, pulling away and pressing a kiss to her palm. “Kids probably want a story. I’ll be out when they let their teeth out of me,” he grinned. “Dag, take care of my woman.”

He pushed through the door to find all five of his children expectantly in bed, and the _moment_  he came through the door, there was a collective sigh of disappointment. Bors frowned, grabbing his chair and their favourite book, scowling. Each of them went from expectantly sitting to resignedly lying there, covers tucked up to their chins.

“What’s the matter, you not happy to see me?” Bors scoffed.

His second eldest girl was staring at the bedsheets. “We were hopin’ you’d gone out, so maybe Uncle Galahad would be back to read us more stories.”

Bors sputtered in shock, blinking and wondering just when that name had first passed their little lips. “Who?”

She beamed, and his youngest smiled through his two missing front teeth. “Gallyhad. He told us a story ‘bout a prince and a Wizard and fairy tale love and he never finished it and we wanna know the ending and when’s he gonna be back, Daddy? We want the story!”

“Figures,” Bors muttered to himself. “A brat to charm my brats. I’ll force him over here soon, but t’il then, it’s the Ugly Ducklings again and you’re all going to shut up and love it, right?”

“Right, Daddy,” they echoed to the sound of shuffling sheets as they settled into bed.

“That’s my l’il bastards,” he smirked, flipping open the book. “Once upon a time…” 18.

“Do you know,” Lancelot grunted, “how long it took me to find you?” he whispered, crossing his arms and shivering slightly. He hunched over, trying to get as close as he could so he could whisper to Arthur. “Took me two bloody hours, a tip-off, and calling in a favour from one of the loan sharks!” He shivered again. “Christ, I hate it here.”

“You’re being blasphemous in a church,” Arthur replied evenly, eyes closed in prayer. “And it’s not cold outside. Stop shivering.”

“I think it’s God trying to smite me down,” Lancelot said, sneering up at the altar. “I thought you said you didn’t go to confession anymore, for the safety of the group.” Lancelot raised a curious eyebrow, checking around them for people. He grasped one of the songbooks and aimlessly rifled through the pages. “What happened to that?”

“I switched churches. That was the small parish of St. Matthew’s. This is a large cathedral, Lancelot. Surely you can see the difference,” Arthur murmured, snatching the songbook and putting it back in place, clasping his hands together.

“Let me guess, the bigger the church, the more power the priests have in absolving your sins? I hate to say it, Arthur, but you’re a lost cause,” Lancelot whispered as a woman knelt down beside the pew and slid her way into the aisle seat. “If God’s going to love you and forgive you, he won’t care that you and some priest sat down and gossiped for an hour. If he’s going to forgive you for everything that people like us…”

“People like us,” Arthur interrupted sharply, his eyes opening and his gaze snapping towards Lancelot. “What do you mean, people like us? Sinners like you? Remorseless, mocking my faith, leading me down the paths I’m supposed to avoid.”

“Leading, what  _leading_  do I do?” Lancelot replied incredulously. “You chose to go down those paths yourself, Arthur. Don’t blame me!”

“Don’t mock my faith, Lancelot,” Arthur hissed sternly, clutching his rosary a little tighter and kneeling down, head tilted up to the cross at the front of the cathedral. Lancelot sighed heavily and followed in Arthur’s suit, kneeling beside Arthur and staring to the front of the cathedral, eyes locked on the crucifix and the altar. “Why are you here?”

“I came to find you,” Lancelot said simply. “What happened?” he asked seriously. “Was it a nightmare? Did you have another rush of guilt? No one’s died, no one’s been arrested, and we…”

Arthur hung his head.

“Oh,” Lancelot scoffed, smirking slightly, unable to keep the bitterness from his voice. He nodded, shaking his head in disbelief. “We. It’s that again. Because you said you loved me the other night and then you fucked me…” the woman in the pew gasped and Lancelot stared at her for the briefest of seconds before turning back to Arthur. “Is that it, Arthur? You’re ashamed of us in front of the eyes of your God?” Lancelot pressed his lips together. “Do you think if you confess to a priest, that God will completely absolve you of these sins?”

“No,” Arthur whispered back, shutting his eyes a little tighter. “I’m not an idiot, Lancelot. I know forgiveness isn’t offered to me by holy hand just because I confess, but it makes me feel better. It puts me at ease.” He shook his head. “Can’t you let me have that? Just that.”

Lancelot sat back in the pew, his posture hunched.

“Do you tell him about the killings?” Lancelot asked passively, gaze fixated on the Stations of the Cross nailed to the walls of the cathedral, stained glass colouring the floor in a dozen different shades. “The life we lead?”

“Only when I feel I should,” Arthur tucked his rosary into his wrist and sat back, shoulder pressed against Lancelot’s. “And I never say ‘I took a life’. I never say that.”

Lancelot stared, unable to take his eyes off the holy relics around him, feeling incredibly small and humbled by the religious paraphernalia that seemed to be  _everywhere_. He was in Arthur’s world now and he didn’t belong. He looked to the ground, for the briefest of moments thinking about the life after the current one and what would happen to his body, to his spirit, knowing that his beliefs dictated that he would merely cease to be.

“What do you say?”

Arthur swallowed the lump in his throat. “I’ve done a terrible thing,” he murmurs hollowly. “The priest never presses. Only gives me my penance.”

“Do you think God forgives you? The priest? Does he forgive you?” Lancelot turned, curious now. Arthur was staring at the confessional booth, perfect posture as not a single emotion flickered over Arthur’s face. He’d always been impossible to read, but even when Lancelot assumed he should have been able to guess at what Arthur was feeling, there was no evidence, no proof.

Arthur stood tall when a woman in black pushed aside the curtains of the confessional booth and left the tiny box empty. “I forgive myself, if only for the time being.” He straightened his suit jacket and pressed a kiss to Lancelot’s curls, heading off towards the booth. Lancelot sighed, turning to the first station of the cross, remembering Arthur’s tales, remembering the kiss of betrayal, and remembering that Arthur would _never_  do that to him and to the Knights.

Lancelot closed his eyes and murmured a quick prayer – the only one he knew. He whispered the prayer his mother taught him and didn’t open his eyes until Arthur returned from the booth.

19.

“Once upon a time…” Gawain whispered into Galahad’s ear, lightly tickling at his stomach as Galahad writhed slightly. The bathtub was expansive, big enough for at least another person with the two of them already hoarding the space. Gawain had filled it with oils and slipped into the warm water only to be joined by Galahad moments later. They’d gotten a hotel room for the day to celebrate the first kill, the first fuck, and the first time they didn’t spend the night in the midst of their unsatisfying arrangement. Gawain shifted slightly until he was nestled perfectly in place, his cock slipping slightly into Galahad.

“Oh,” Galahad gasped. “Oh, I like this story. Keep going.”

Gawain laughed, the sound throaty and deep. He wrapped his arms around Galahad’s chest, sending ripples of water down to the other end of the tub as he pushed in a little deeper, pressing a kiss to Galahad’s temple, his lips brushing aside damp curls and tasting the smallest remnants of salty sweat there for his tongue to devour.

“You’re clean, right?” Gawain whispered.

“Scrub-a-dub,” Galahad teased.

Gawain rolled his eyes, prodding Galahad hard in the shoulder, mapping out the area with the tips of his fingers, imagining another tattoo there. “I mean it.”

“Of course,” Galahad replied swiftly, rolling his eyes. “And you’re clean too. I was there for your test. Do you honestly think I’d let you do this if you weren’t?” He tipped his head backwards, pushing back against Gawain, forcing Gawain a little deeper into Galahad’s body. Gawain gave a sharp gasp. “Now, I believe you were on ‘once upon a time’.”

“Once,” Gawain gasped, bracing himself on the edges of the tub before plunging his hands in the water and reaching down to stroke Galahad’s cock, “upon a time, there was a prince.” Gawain grinned, tilting his chin upwards so he could rest it atop Galahad’s curls. “And he was the prettiest prince in the land,” Gawain whispered.

“And his,” Galahad breathed out through his teeth, gasping for air, “Prince Charming?”

“I’ll talk about myself later,” Gawain gasped, pushing deeper into Galahad and letting his forehead fall on Galahad’s shoulder, the tips of his hair wet from the water – now a cloying scent that would stick to their skin for days, no doubt. He gave a pleased murmur as he heard Galahad gasp happily, when Gawain hit a sensitive spot. Gawain bit down hard on his lower lip, his head tipping further forward, his lips slipping and biting at Galahad’s shoulder.

Galahad writhed slightly, creating more ripples in the tub, moaning quietly, reaching down, and interlacing his fingers with Gawain’s, stroking Galahad’s cock with the knuckles of their combined fingers of one hand as Gawain’s other hand flew to grasp Galahad by the hip – slipping every few seconds – as he pushed up into Galahad, thrusting lazily, the warm water relaxing him. Gawain’s eyes slipped shut as he tilted his head slightly and began to suck at Galahad’s neck. He coaxed lazy moans from Galahad as he bit and nipped and sucked, making marks everywhere he could in his mouth’s path for conquest of Galahad’s skin. Galahad pushed back into Gawain for every thrust of Gawain’s forward.

“The Prince had everything,” Gawain gasped, words muffled by Galahad’s neck, “he…wanted.”

“No,” Galahad moaned. “No, he didn’t.”

Gawain picked up the pace, thrusting harder and faster as he shifted to the other side of Galahad’s neck, proceeding to give it the same treatment as Galahad’s already-reddened half. He opened his mouth to speak, but the echoing ring of their mobiles cut him off. Gawain and Galahad groaned in tandem, the soft whimper of discontent lurking behind the frustration.

“Don’t answer,” Galahad barked, tightening his grip on Gawain’s hand.

Gawain gave a moan, his eyes flying open. “It could be important.”

“Get me off,” Galahad murmured quietly. “Nothing is important until we’re done. Faster,” he urged, pushing back against Gawain, stroking himself quicker. “C’mon, Gawain, come,” Galahad urged in a soft whisper of a voice – the words burning an imprint just so Gawain would be sure to never forget. “So close,” his voice was high, his breaths were shallow, and when his back arched, the smallest sound of content passed his lips.

Gawain grinned, pushing into Galahad, closing his eyes and concentrating on that and that alone. The phones were still ringing, again and again.

“Gawain,” Galahad whispered happily, hand still clasping Gawain’s and rubbing his thumb in small constant circles against Gawain’s palm. “Gawain. Gawain, oh,” he repeated with a moan, the purr of content finding its way into Galahad’s voice somehow. He leaned back into Gawain slightly and shifted just slightly, just enough for Gawain to push the smallest bit further.

Gawain bit his lip hard and suppressed the moan that threatened to escape as he climaxed. He breathed heavily, the sounds of the room slowly filtering back into his hearing. He opened his eyes to find Galahad reaching for his mobile.

“Yeah?” Galahad asked casually. “Yeah, he’s here.” He rolled his eyes. “Of  _course_  we were indisposed. What’s going on?” He bit his lip, craning his neck around to look at Gawain, mouthing ‘not good’. “Right,” Galahad sighed. “Yeah, meeting tomorrow at three. Got it.” He hung up and threw the mobile back in their pile of clothes, sinking back into the water with a sigh – half troubled, half relaxed.

“What is it?”

“Dagonet was talking to his contact on the force,” Galahad mumbled. “My name’s on the list now with a sketchy description.”

“What list, what…the…” Gawain blinked in shock. “The wanted list? How can you be on the wanted list?” he expressed incredulously.

“Name, blurry picture, confirmation,” Galahad mumbled. “Meeting’s tomorrow at three to review the facts for Tristan’s kill.” He swore, sinking lower in the water. “Shit,” he murmured miserably, giving the tub a dull hit with the heel of his hand. Gawain closed his eyes tightly, wondering who leaked the information. He shifted slightly and unplugged the drain, massaging Galahad’s shoulders and whispering soothing and incomprehensible words. “You think my parents will find out?” Galahad whispered, knuckles white from their grip on the tub. “Shit,” he muttered.

Gawain sat back against the tub, watching Galahad get up and seeing the panic in every single move he was making. Gawain waited a moment and lifted himself by the edge of the tub, grasping a towel and tugging Galahad back into his arms, drying off his hair with it and making sure his body wasn’t soaked.

“Are you going to wrap me in it too?” Galahad sneered, cursing under his breath.

Gawain rolled his eyes. “I’m trying to dry you, idiot, so you won’t be soaked when I give you a blowjob on the bed.”

“Oh!” Galahad remarked, pleased. “Well, by all means, continue.”

Gawain shook his head, muttering ‘only you’ as he continued to towel down Galahad with long, slow strokes, fingers trailing the towel and lingering over Galahad’s warm skin – smelling of the oils. Gawain gave his hair a good shake and gave Galahad’s shoulder a nudge towards the room before wrapping the towel around his waist, watching appreciatively as Galahad walked naked to the king sized bed and sprawled out on the covers, propping his head up with pillows.

“You’re quite the sight,” Gawain commented, leaning against the washroom door, arms crossed as he studied Galahad. He pushed himself off of the frame using his hips and dropped the towel on the floor along the way, crawling onto the bed and on top of Galahad, indulging in the thrill of knowing that the smile on Galahad’s face belonged to him, was because of him. “Hey,” he said softly, leaning down to kiss Galahad on the forehead, trailing his lips down Galahad’s nose and kissing him hard on the lips before nipping hard at the lower lip, creating a tiny bite mark on the corner of the lip and continuing his descent. “It’ll be okay,” Gawain murmured, lips ghosting over the skin of Galahad’s chest, bringing about goosebumps on Galahad’s forearms.

“Don’t make promises,” Galahad warned, head tilted back into the pillows, his breathing a little faster.

Gawain froze, looking up. “Galahad,” he said seriously, his brow furrowed. “I  _will_  make you promises. The ones I can keep, I will make. I’ll watch over you, don’t worry. It will be okay,” he repeated sternly.

Galahad’s grin reappeared on his face – brighter this time – and Gawain took that as a signal to continue what he was doing, sinking lower and lower, hands rubbing up and down Galahad’s sides lightly, feeling Galahad breathe as he parted his lips and wrapped them around the head of Galahad’s cock, licking there lightly – flicks simply to tease and taste – before shifting to get comfortable, taking him deeper. Galahad pressed his lips together, choking on the moan in his throat as Gawain pushed his tongue hard against the underside of Galahad’s cock, thrusting slightly as he took Galahad as deep as he could.

“Gawain,” Galahad gasped, his body shaking and heaving with his breaths. “Oh…oh God, Gawain,” his voice hit a higher pitch as one hand furrowed in Gawain’s damp hair, grasping it hard and giving a good tug. “Faster,” he hissed.

Gawain complied, his world narrowing until he could see, think, smell, hear, and only feel Galahad beneath his mouth and fingertips. He delighted in the moans Galahad made and shifted every time Galahad’s hips thrust upwards. Gawain continued to increase his speed and his tongue’s movements every time Galahad made a noise and matched Galahad’s thrusts every second of the way. Gawain heard the catch in Galahad’s breathing, the tiny sound that Gawain  _knew_  signified that Galahad was moments away from climaxing – years of habit and experience in Gawain’s memory – and Gawain adjusted slightly.

Sure enough, seconds later, Galahad’s back arched up violently, his hands clutching the ends of Gawain’s hair as his hips pushed his cock a little deeper into Gawain’s mouth as he came, Gawain’s name tumbling off Galahad’s lips. Gawain licked his lips, swallowing and lapping at Galahad’s cock, pulling away and grinning, Gawain’s tongue almost permanently affixed to his lower lip.

Gawain collapsed beside Galahad, one arm draped over Galahad’s chest – the both of them sticky and sated, both staring at the ceiling. Galahad pushed out a long exhalation, his lips forming a perfect ‘o’.

“God,” Galahad muttered, his voice punch-drunk with happiness. “You’re pretty damn good.”

“I’m glad you think so,” Gawain scoffed, shifting to steal one of Galahad’s pillows to stick behind his head. He turned slightly, one hand lazily stroking at Galahad’s hips and brushing small circles. “Hey, I meant what I said before. It’ll be okay. We’ve been on the wanted list for years now and we’re still fine.”

“You have a terrible habit of talking,” Galahad commented drowsily, his eyes slipping shut as he turned and rested his head half on Gawain’s shoulder, using it as a pillow. “Grab a blanket, shut up, and let me sleep,” he grumbled, wrapping his arms around Gawain’s hips and burrowing in a little closer for warmth as Gawain sat up at the hips, grabbing one of the blankets at the end of the bed and draping it over their bodies. “Better,” Galahad mumbled, his breathing evening out as he fell asleep.

Gawain shifted slightly, checking the clock and waiting until Galahad was sure to be asleep before he slipped out of Galahad’s grasp and went straight for his mobile. He dialed a number quickly and ducked into the washroom.

“Hi,” Gawain said briskly, checking his watch as he grasped his sweats, pulling them on. “I need an address.”

20.

“There’s a leak.”

The talking stopped and everyone turned their attention to Gawain. Galahad fidgeted, keeping his mouth shut – a marked difference from every other moment the Knights had known him. Gawain pushed himself off the couch, taking Arthur’s place in front of the room, looking down as if to find footprints indicating where he should stand.

“We’ll call a plumber,” Tristan said dryly.

Gawain glared. “A  _leak_ , idiot.”

“I know,” Tristan whispered, mocking Gawain’s tone of voice and rolling his eyes. Gawain sneered, his glare turning into a pleased smirk when Galahad gave Tristan a shove with his feet – just the kind of violence Gawain had been intending to dole out. He gave Galahad a grateful smile and received one in return, only continuing when he heard Bors snapping his fingers at him.

“I have a lead,” he explained, pacing back and forth. “It might be nothing though, some woman I was chatting up the other…”

“ _You_  were chatting up a woman?” Galahad interrupted with disbelief.

Gawain glowered. “She listened to me complain,” he said coolly.

Galahad smirked. “I thought so.”

Gawain took a deep breath to school his thoughts and push down the deep desire to gag and bind Galahad to the couch – and then paused a little more as that brought up some truly interesting thoughts. He cleared his throat and began to pace a little quicker, wanting to get out of there. Galahad had promised to distract them both from the events at hand. He shook his head. “As I was saying, it’s a lead I’ll track down as soon as I can.” He nodded to Tristan. “As soon as his kill is done and we can circulate in public again.”

“I’ll work on the leak as well. Now, speaking of his kill,” Arthur looked up from the chair, shifting and brushing against Lancelot’s thighs – where Lancelot was perched upon the arm of the chair. “Is everything set up?”

Tristan shrugged. “Can’t complain. I’ve got two days to go, but so long as I get the proper release,” he grinned wickedly, “I’ll hold my own.”

Gawain nodded, heading back to the couch and shoving Galahad’s legs out of his spot, giving him a brief glare before bursting into amused laughter at the look on Galahad’s face as he leaned in and whispered, “Very commanding. Only diminished by me undressing you with my mind.” They laughed aloud for a moment before putting on their most serious expressions. “Are we done?” Galahad asked innocently, shifting and resting his feet in Gawain’s lap, where Gawain proceeded to pluck idly at the fabric of Galahad’s socks.

“Let them go,” Lancelot mumbled. “The better for my eyes if I don’t have to see them going at it right on the couch I bought.”

Arthur cast an amused smile over their way as Galahad pleaded with the widest, most innocent eyes a man like him could muster. “Fine,” Arthur nodded. “Just remember, no public places, no scenes, no arrests.”

Galahad lit up with a grin, bouncing onto his feet and grabbing his coat. “Race you to the car, Gawain.”

“No car crashes either!” Arthur shouted after Galahad as he headed quickly for the exit.

Gawain rose to his feet slowly, reaching behind him for his jacket and running a hand through his hair, a small and amused smile on his face as he slipped on the leather coat that Tristan had bought him. He ruffled Tristan’s hair slightly. “We’re uh, not driving anywhere,” Gawain replied with a slight flush to his cheeks. “Or going anyplace. And the first one of you to knock on the windows is going to pay for it in his sleep. You will be eviscerated very slowly.”

“Please tell me it’s not the company car,” Bors growled.

“Galahad’s.”

“Thank God,” Arthur murmured under his breath. He cleared his throat as Gawain shot him a disdainful look and closed the door firmly. Arthur shoved his hands in his pockets and swayed back and forth, his eyes always cast upon the clock. “I suppose that’s all we had to talk about.”

“Good,” Bors muttered, getting up and stretching his back. “The kids are expecting me to take them to the park. I figure an hour or two there’ll shut ‘em up.” He waved as he left out the back door and left the others to their own devices.

“Arthur, the strategies?” Lancelot voiced expectantly, already halfway across the room and heading for the viewing booth beside the training room. “I’ve just come up with a new one!” he said with a grin. “Very complicated, might take a while to learn.” Arthur was across the room without a single noise to give him away and the door shut on them loudly.

“Well,” Dagonet announced, relaxing in his desk chair. “ _Are_  you ready?”

“As ready as I always am,” Tristan murmured absently. “What about you? Your trip to…where are you going?”

“France. Follow-up on a client who refused to make payment,” Dagonet gave a cold grin as he cracked his fingers. It had been a toss-up between Tristan, Bors, and Dagonet, but in the end, Dagonet was the only one to actually know the accounting terminology to properly frighten the client with both brute force and mental frustrations. “I’m going to convince him that he not only wants to pay us, but he’d love for us to have copious amounts of interest.”

Tristan gave him a genuine smile as he began to arrange his weapons on the table. “It’s what you’re best at.”

Dagonet gave a brief laugh, pulling up a few documents. “I’ll take your word for it.”

*

All things considered, that night should have been a quiet one. Dagonet was polishing off research regarding their latest client. Lancelot had locked the door behind them after dragging Arthur back into the room by his tie when Arthur dared venture outside for refreshment. He’d pushed Arthur to the chair and promptly straddled him, latching his lips onto Arthur’s and kissing him as hard as he could, tilting his head and turning and never ceasing in his kisses.

In the main room, Dagonet tapped lightly at the computer, finishing off correspondences while Tristan polished his weapons in precise, methodical order.

The front door slammed open with a startling  _bang_  causing Tristan and Dagonet to turn immediately, hands on their weapons. It wasn’t necessary because it was just Gawain and Galahad stumbling in, hands dug into each other’s clothes and lips attached, making out with the most desperate of noises coming from both of them as they spun and stumbled and headed towards the training room. Gawain had his back to the door and gave it a sound kick, tugging Galahad inside and shutting the door.

Tristan and Dagonet exchanged a quick look before rushing over and pounding on the small door – not to the training room, but to the more voyeuristic of the two. “Arthur!” Dagonet commanded. “Unlock the door!”

There were mutterings behind the door and then Lancelot, his collar loosened, drew it open; behind him, Arthur sat there with his lips swollen. Tristan raised an eyebrow and Lancelot held his ground, staring right back. “What?” Lancelot asked evenly, clearly not amused. Dagonet pushed past him and Tristan followed suit, turning towards the glass and hopping on the table as Dagonet grabbed another chair. Finally, Arthur and Lancelot turned and in synchronization, let out an astounded, “oh God”. Arthur relaxed back in the chair and tugged Lancelot onto his lap.

“Look at–” Arthur swallowed hard, “–that.”

The four of them stared and watched Gawain push Galahad onto the table, stripping him quickly of his leather coat, and lunging forward, kissing up Galahad’s arm, biting every once in a while as Galahad ran both hands through Gawain’s hair, tipping his head back and moaning. The legs of the table started to rock and they all watched as the table gave out, splintering into broken pieces all over the floor, Galahad sitting atop the wreck and giggling with snorted laughter.

Lancelot grinned, leaning back and looking at Dagonet.

“Weakened?” Lancelot asked.

“Very much so,” Dagonet nodded, his eyes turning back to the room.

Gawain and Galahad laughed loudly while Gawain offered a hand to Galahad and pulled him to his feet. They circled one another before Galahad pounced on Gawain, pushing him up against the mirror and kissing him hard. Lancelot raised an eyebrow, squirming in Arthur’s lap as they watched Gawain push Galahad away and stalk forward, ripping Galahad’s shirt and letting the buttons scatter all over the ground, pushing the fabric off Galahad’s torso with some force. Gawain’s tight jeans went next, as Galahad sunk to the ground, his knees a good distance apart as he gazed up at Gawain, licking his lips. Galahad’s heavy breathing kept echoing in the room as he stood swiftly and tugged Gawain’s shirt off his head, his hair tussling into disarray in the process.

Arthur and Lancelot tilted their heads in tandem, watching with intense interest as Galahad tugged down Gawain’s boxers with a mischievous smirk. “You are absolutely amazing,” Galahad growled, cupping Gawain’s arse as he tugged off his own socks, throwing them to the floor while unzipping his leather trousers slowly.

“No pants,” Tristan commented evenly.

“No what?” Lancelot turned.

Tristan pointed, almost urgently. “Watch!”

Galahad wiggled his hips slowly, moving backwards and shifting out of his trousers, pushing them down with a smirk on his face. Gawain was inching closer and closer as Galahad finally tugged them off completely.

“Gawain, out of the way,” Lancelot snarled to himself. Arthur snaked his hand around and pressed it against Lancelot’s crotch, stroking through the fabric of his trousers. Lancelot laughed and glanced at Tristan before his eyes slipped back to the training room to find Gawain’s hands caressing Galahad’s hips. Arthur’s hands were doing much the same thing atop Lancelot’s trousers. “No pants,” he agreed with approval.

Dagonet peered forward, wondering if he could get the lights on any higher, but that would likely give them away. Tristan pulled him back – Dagonet’s nose nearly up against the glass, squinting – and gave him a smirk.

“You need glasses,” Tristan whispered teasingly.

Dagonet glared. “Careful. You might need a cast.”

Tristan was about to reply with something else when Gawain’s broken moan filtered into their little room. Everyone turned their gaze – Lancelot a bit late thanks to his gaze being down on his lap where Arthur’s hands were slipping inside his trousers and where his fingers were doing delicately indelicate things – to find Galahad back on his knees, leather trousers undone and hanging off his hips. Galahad’s hands stroked up and down Gawain’s thighs lazily, and at the profile they were watching at, they could only see the barest hint of Galahad taking Gawain deep in his mouth, curls frizzing and obscuring Galahad’s eyes.

“Do you think they know we’re here?” Lancelot mused curiously.

Tristan snorted with laughter, watching Gawain’s body flail every few seconds. “They have to. Dagonet and I were in the room when they stumbled in. Besides, the boy’s a slut. We established that.”

“And an exhibitionist,” Lancelot tilted his head, watching Gawain run his hand through Galahad’s hair and grasp hard at the curls. He bit back a moan as Arthur flicked his thumb over the head of Lancelot’s cock. He turned around. “Taking lessons?” he hissed as quietly as he could. He let out a quiet moan. “Oh…God, don’t stop.”

Gawain let out a louder cry, tossing his head back, his hair trailing down his back as he dipped his head back completely, shouting out Galahad’s name, gracefully arching his back and letting his head fall forward, tucked into his chest. Galahad pulled away, lips parted and for one brief second, he looked over at the mirror – lips reddened and mouth parted slightly, eyes half-lidded as a smile slowly appeared on his face. He bit his lip and turned his attention back to Gawain, as though he’d never looked over.

Gawain yanked Galahad up to his feet, handing Galahad his trousers with his free hand.

“I know you’re in there,” Gawain called out loudly, barely turning towards the mirror. “It was Galahad’s idea.”

Lancelot craned his neck around, swiftly murmuring, “Let’s go.” Arthur nodded furiously as Lancelot nearly jumped out of his lap, tugging Arthur along with him. The door clanged shut and Dagonet shifted onto the table and smiled, shrugging. Tristan tugged at the hem of Dagonet’s shirt.

“Our once a month thing?” Tristan asked quietly.

Dagonet snorted. “We’re pushing three times this month.”

“I bought new binds,” Tristan said, voice lilting with a light tease to the words as he stood up. “I’ll be at my place if you want to join me. Besides. They say a little bit of relaxation before a flight is good for the soul.”

“ _You_  say that,” Dagonet countered, sliding gracefully off the counter and heading out, the quiet and ragged breathing from the training room echoing around their ears, tiny whispers of ‘Galahad, yes, Galahad’ and ‘come on, Gawain’ filling the space. He shrugged. “Your place?”

“You can drive,” Tristan held out the keys. Dagonet palmed them gratefully and grabbed his coat. Tristan gave a mischievous smirk. “I love it when you drive.”

21.

Lancelot and Arthur didn’t make it past the car.

Lancelot had opened the door to the back seat to throw his coat there and be done with the damn wool thing when Arthur gave him a push into the car and slammed the door behind him, climbing atop Lancelot and grinning mischievously as he leaned down and kissed Lancelot with the most intense kiss since…well, since their last. Lancelot shifted and nearly fell onto the floor at least twice as he struggled to pull away, simply to breathe.

“I see you’re back to,” Lancelot took deep breaths, catching up on all the ones he missed while Arthur had been exploring his mouth, “not caring about what God thinks.”

“We made amends,” Arthur replied swiftly, hooking his thumbs into Lancelot’s trousers and giving a little bit of a tug. Lancelot’s hips went along with Arthur’s tug and he gave them a little more thrust forward to push against Arthur and to give a little friction to their growing erections.

Lancelot paused, hands on Arthur’s collar. “We’re not doing this because we watched them, right? It’s not like watching them made this happen,” he finished uncertainly, not wanting in any way to admit  _aloud_  to being sexually aroused by Galahad and Gawain.

“Of course not,” Arthur replied defiantly. “This was in the cards.”

Lancelot grinned and tilted his chin upwards to capture another kiss, rocking his hips up against Arthur and slipping his hands under his shirt, delighting in the feel of Arthur’s skin smooth and warm under his fingertips. He captured Arthur’s bottom lip between his teeth and pulled Arthur down with him as he pressed into the leather seats.

“Well,” Arthur mumbled, muffled by Lancelot’s kiss. “Maybe we’re doing it a little because of them.”

Lancelot paused, considering. “Fine. Don’t tell them.”

Arthur gave a nod and pressed his face into the crook of Lancelot’s neck, taking his time in licking slow paths up Lancelot’s neck only to descend upon those same paths and leave bites to show where he had traversed. Lancelot took deep, contented breaths, exhalations becoming moans as his fingers fumbled to get inside Arthur’s pocket. Finally, he succeeded when he felt the telltale beads beneath his hands. With a smug grin and a hard yank, he tugged the rosary from Arthur and pocketed it in the back pocket of his trousers.

“Mine,” Lancelot whispered, closing his eyes and slipping into the feel of Arthur’s hands clamping around his wrists and pushing them above Lancelot’s head, leaning in slowly and capturing Lancelot’s attention, his lips, and his heart for the at least the hundredth time in his lifetime. Lancelot gave a pleased murmur into Arthur’s mouth, unbuttoning his own shirt and pushing it aside, guiding Arthur’s lips down his neck and down his torso in a graceful, unbroken motion.

Arthur grinned. “Fine,” he consented, sitting up and straddling Lancelot, hand sneaking inside his trousers. “I’ve got something to hold on to myself,” he murmured with a good, firm stroke of Lancelot’s cock.

Lancelot groaned. “Really, stop…” Arthur froze. “No! Not that.” Arthur grinned and continued his strokes. “No more bad jokes.”

Arthur’s smile appeared slowly, lips curving up in quiet delight. “I picked it up from you,” he confided quietly, his strokes slow and methodically precise now. Arthur eased off, removing his tie with his free hand and smirking down at Lancelot, brushing the underside of Lancelot’s cock with a firm stroke of his thumb before removing his hand from Lancelot’s trousers and grasping Lancelot’s hands, wrapping the tie around Lancelot’s wrist with three easy circles and then tying it to the handle of the car door, making sure to lock it.

“This is new,” Lancelot murmured, wiggling a little to get comfortable. “You didn’t ask,” he added disapprovingly.

Arthur blinked. “I have to ask?” he commented mildly.

Lancelot gave him a sneer, upper lip curling up as Arthur leaned down and kissed the look right off Lancelot’s face. “Asking is polite.” He flexed his hands, thumbs brushing over the bind that Arthur’s tie had become and giving a genuine smile when Arthur slid his hand back inside Lancelot’s loosened trousers and began to stroke lightly again. He gave a light moan and murmured Arthur’s name, noting that every time he made a noise, Arthur increased his pace.

He deliberately gave a bit more of a vocal range to his moan, hips thrusting up against Arthur’s palm and enjoying the friction that gave him. Arthur leaned down, tangling their legs together as he continued to stroke purposefully, always silent, face almost always inscrutable. Lancelot accepted it and took it as something of Arthur’s, something that no one else could do without appearing to be acting or putting on a front. With Arthur, it was simply a part of him.

Lancelot bit his lip and closed his eyes, accepting the warm bliss that washed over him as Arthur slipped his other hand inside Lancelot’s trousers and began to give him his full care and attention. “Arthur,” Lancelot murmured softly, intending to guide him on, to reassure him that the feeling was good – more than good, but words could only express so much.

A rare smile ghosted past Arthur’s lips as Lancelot thrust upwards and came in Arthur’s palms, an incoherent cry escaping Lancelot’s throat and dissipating into the air as Arthur leaned down and kissed the sounds into a muffled cacophony of whispers. “Lancelot,” Arthur exhaled into the kiss. “Can I tie you to the handle of the door?”

Lancelot let out a sputter of laughter, tilting his head to the side and trailing his lips across Arthur’s jaw. “A for effort. F for timeliness.”

“It was worth a try,” Arthur said evenly, hands comfortably resting on the binds.

22.

“You did buy new ropes,” Dagonet remarked with surprise.

Tristan shrugged as he slipped out of his coat and went about tidying the room and making the tiniest of imperfections disappear. “Didn’t have much of a choice. The other ones broke, remember?” He paused, shirts in his hand as he stopped to reminisce about the exact sound they made as they had snapped, Dagonet’s hands tugging hard against the coarse ropes and the way the bed had shaken. “That was a good night.” He idly tugged the new ropes – coarse and thick, ones you would use to tie a mare up to a pole.

“You’re talking too much,” Dagonet said simply, grabbing the ropes from Tristan and shoving him onto the bed with a single push of one hand. Tristan bounced slightly as he hit the mattress, spreading his arms as wide as he could and letting them dangle against his headboard. Dagonet was quickly atop Tristan, one knee in between Tristan’s parted thighs as he unbuttoned Tristan’s shirt with delicacy to his movements.

“Dagonet,” Tristan whispered, cruelty never quite leaving his voice. “Are we here to fuck or are you just going to play dress-up with my body?”

Dagonet paused and gave Tristan’s trousers a hard rip, tearing the material. “I know you’re not a bastard. Stop acting like you’ve been one since birth.”

Tristan glared upwards, eyes never betraying emotion and no cheer on his face. “We don’t talk about that.”

“We don’t,” Dagonet agreed. “But you should start acting like a human being,” he growled, sliding Tristan’s socks off and dropping them at the foot of the bed, ropes in hand as he leaned up and began to drape them around Tristan’s wrists. “They’re going to burn.”

“Good.”

Dagonet lingered in tying Tristan to the posts of the bed, palms caressing the coarse fabric of the rope and brushing his thumb over the threads, knowing they would leave harsh, red burns along Tristan’s wrists, knew that was what he wanted. He tied them a little tighter, making sure they would rub against the pale skin. Tristan’s eyes were dark in the light and from certain angles, they could be mistaken for black – a strange and startling sight that somehow seemed to match Tristan in eerie perfection. He finished tying the left wrist and brushed his fingers across Tristan’s arm and the breadth of Tristan’s chest as he secured the right wrist against the opposite bedpost with slow care. He finished the binds, making sure the ropes were taut before he eased off and sat back on Tristan’s thighs, knees on either side of Tristan’s hips.

“Don’t dare think about pitying me,” Tristan warned. “This is about us watching the boys and needing some release.”

Dagonet shook his head in wonder as he pried his shirt off over his head and tossed it the floor. “Neither of them are here,” Dagonet said quietly. “So it must be about us in some way. You don’t just take yourself out of the picture when we do this.” He eased off a little more, surveying the look on Tristan’s face. “You’d hate that, wouldn’t you? Pity.” He snorted. “Well, then, let’s get started,” Dagonet said evenly, shifting up a little to give himself room to push his black slacks off, resting at mid-thigh as he crawled off Tristan and undressed himself completely, helping Tristan by sliding his underwear off for him. Dagonet pulled open the bedside drawer, where he knew the lubricant and condoms were, tugging them out and spilling the contents onto the bed.

“No,” Tristan said decisively. “No lube.”

Dagonet gave him a sharp look. “You may be a masochistic bastard, but you’re tied up. I’m not,” he warned, unscrewing the lube and covering his fingers with it. Tristan glared up at him, even as Dagonet pushed three of his large fingers into Tristan, adequately preparing him. Finally, Dagonet stripped himself completely, recalling the images that led them to this and with one calf in each palm, Dagonet grasped Tristan’s legs, lifting them up and spreading Tristan’s thighs as wide as they went – an improvement over the last time; a sign that Tristan had been stretching.

He pushed in with a careful rhythm, never pushing too hard, too fast, never teasing and too slow. It was as though every night Tristan spent with Dagonet was a night of practice; a check-up to make sure everything was working. It was a convenience to which they both acknowledged the benefits. No emotions had ever grown out of the monthly occurrence, but the requisite caring for each other had been instilled in their minds since before they’d ever started, a side effect of the job. If Dagonet spent the time to track out the ‘encounters’, he would know with proof that it had started after…

Tristan moaned, bucking off the bed as Dagonet pushed in deeper.

“There we go,” Tristan hissed, a grin plastered on his face and wholly false. “You’re feeling pretty hesitant. No girls lately?” he gasped out the words, a pause here and there as Dagonet bent his head forward and continued with the constant thrusts.

Dagonet paused, tired of this now. He pulled out slightly and supported himself with his fists pressed into the sheets, resting just inside Tristan, not moving once. He narrowed his eyes and watched as Tristan’s eyes flew open at the sudden change while Dagonet gave a very clear look that Tristan had no trouble interpreting. Tristan sighed slightly, tiny beads of sweat rolling down the sides of his face as a look of guilt flickered over his features.

“Sorry,” Tristan apologized.

Dagonet didn’t move. “For what?”

Tristan didn’t pause. “Tonight. Look, it’s…it gets hard without having…I’m sorry, okay? Now,” his voice softened. “Please continue.”

Dagonet nodded slowly, pushing back inside Tristan in the same measured pace, Tristan’s body writhing and thrusting up in perfect time as they echoed each other’s grunts, groans, and gasps. Dagonet removed one hand from its place on the beddings to stroke Tristan’s cock, fingers always in the right places to get a reaction. Tristan tucked his chin into his chest as he whispered out a rushed sentence, foreign words slurring together as his back arched and his hips rose off the bed, his climax no more than a whisper as it nearly always was. Dagonet continued to push, hips smooth with every thrust now as his movements flowed with practiced ease. No more than a few moments later, Dagonet licked his lower lip and gave a hoarse grunt as he came, head bowing forward and resting there for a moment as he caught his breath, slipping out of Tristan.

He leaned forward, covering Tristan’s body with his own, one hand atop each of Tristan’s and simply resting there, breathing in tandem with Tristan’s measured breaths.

“They’re not a bad sight, hm?” Tristan whispered.

Dagonet didn’t bother lifting his head from Tristan’s shoulder. “It means you’re out of luck. No more sessions with Galahad.”

Tristan raised a calm eyebrow. “You say the meanest things.”

Dagonet only laughed. 23.

Bors was waiting the counter at the pub when five o’clock struck. He’d taken Dagonet’s shifts while he’d flown out to France to do a job that should have been Bors’ in the first place, but a few well-placed words about his kids and the kind of talking the job would require quickly ruled out both Tristan and Bors for the job, giving it to Dagonet by default. He washed down the glass in his hands and checked out the clientele, looking out for anyone who might have overheard anything and leaked the information about the whelp. Though, the way he acted, the entire population of the city should know about him and what he did.

Arthur had been scribbling away at his notebook at the end of the bar for hours now and Bors had made sure to fill up his glass every half hour with his favourite wine. From the glimpses that Bors got, tax forms piled atop the notebook, which had a list of names on it.

Bors was glad to be tending the bar, though. Vanora was getting more than a mite touchy with the new baby on the way and usually Dagonet was around to absorb her harsher blows. With Dagonet out of the country, Bors didn’t want to risk limb and life to appease her when everyone knew just how dangerous that could be.

“Work going well?” Bors leaned on the counter by Arthur when his scan of the room only revealed a regular, a few lonely men, women, and Galahad and Gawain in one of the corner booths, making Bors wish he’d gone blind. He frowned when Arthur didn’t respond, didn’t even look up. Then, Bors realized that Arthur was asleep. “Hey,” he grunted, poking Arthur in the arm.

“Lancelot, not…” Arthur awoke sharply, sitting perfectly straight.

Bors raised an eyebrow, noting that Tristan had slipped into the pub at some point in the last few minutes and was hanging around his regular stool, waiting for his pre-kill drink, presumably. “Thinking ‘bout someone?” Bors smirked, topping off Arthur’s red wine before heading for the Scotch and lingering by Tristan. “How’s the pre-job routine going?”

“Delayed,” Tristan said plainly, cradling the drink that Bors had poured for him with both hands. “With Dagonet out of town, I’m a little…” he looked around and leaned in. “If you tell anyone, I’ll make you wish you’d never been born. I’m a little jittery,” he finished off quietly, knocking back half the drink in one sip. He gave a slight frustrated growl and began to survey the pub. “Slept with her. And him. That one’s depressed. Ah, perfect,” he grinned, sighting Galahad and Gawain and hopping off his stool, heading for the corner.

There was a small, amused noise from Arthur’s end of the bar. “He’ll be rejected.”

Bors turned and watched, idly drying one of the glasses that had just run through the wash. Tristan seemed to be leaning in and getting into the situation as always, but surprisingly, the whelp was paying him little attention, one hand visible on the table and the other nowhere to be seen – though, judging from Gawain’s reactions, Bors could make an educated guess. Moments later, Tristan was back at the bar, a frustrated look on his face and a barely audible growl resonating from his throat.

“Rejected?” Bors scoffed with as much sympathy as he could muster.

“He’s occupied,” Tristan said evenly, eyes cold. “Dagonet is in France and I haven’t seen Issy in weeks.” Bors pressed his lips together and avoided comment on Isolde, Tristan’s intriguing and Irish mistress who glided into their lives and out, only pausing long enough to break Tristan’s spirit and oftentimes his heart. “I’m  _not_ ,” he gritted his teeth, “sleeping with a pedestrian before a job. I’m not.”

“So just go and do the job and find a whore for after,” Bors offered with a shrug.

Tristan paused and considered, tapping his fingers on the counter in a rhythmic pattern. He seemed to make up his mind quickly because he glided off the stool and went straight for the door. Bors watched him shove the front door open – with a _purpose_  — before he turned back to find Arthur asleep again. Bors muttered to himself and slammed the glass down hard on the bar beside Arthur’s head, smirking when Arthur shot back up into perfect posture.

“I’m up!” Arthur announced loudly. Gawain and Galahad were looking over curiously, whispering to each other. Bors frowned slightly, trying to recall the last time anyone but Arthur was first into the base and the last time he wasn’t the last out. “Maybe,” he muttered drowsily, resting his head on his arms. Bors wondered where Lancelot was flitting about while leaving their leader in a state of near-narcolepsy. “Wake me up when we have the wrap-up meeting for Tristan’s job,” he muttered into the bar.

“Arthur, maybe you should go home,” Bors suggested gently, prying the paperwork away and studying it. “Half these forms are covered in your spit from drooling,” he whispered, suppressing his smirk. He studied the forms and groaned. “Tax slips. You’ve got to be bloody kidding me. You’re forsaking sleep for  _this_?” He sighed and shook his head. “Go home, get to bed, and let Lancelot take care of you for once, got it?” He scoffed. “Stubborn bastard,” he grunted underneath his breath.

“Lancelot’s…” Arthur stifled his yawn. “He’s doing some errands.”

“I  _was_ ,” Lancelot announced loudly, arriving from the back door – the kitchen entrance – and carrying assorted bags, suits draped over his arm in clear paper that crinkled with every movement. “Now I’m back. I have hot dinner, your clothes, and all the information you wanted.” He raised a disapproving eyebrow, cocking his head. “Bors, was he falling asleep?”

“Hot dinner?” Arthur asked hopefully, the tiniest light flickering back in his eyes.

Lancelot grinned. “Only if you get your arse into the car and get back to your flat so I can feed you and put you to bed.”

“He’s my live-in nanny,” Arthur explained dryly, shuffling the papers together and sliding off his stool. Bors stifled his laugh and grabbed a Guinness from the bar, sliding the bottle to Arthur and giving him a sympathetic look. Arthur pressed his lips together and took the bottle gratefully, tucking the papers under his arm as he followed Lancelot out the front entrance, feet dragging along the floor. When they were gone, Bors paused, his eyes flickering over Gawain and Galahad in the back and he sighed, grabbing two beers in each hand and navigating the sparse pub to deliver the drinks to the  _finally_ separated men.

“Hi,” Galahad greeted him with a peaceful smile, the energy all in his eyes. Gawain smiled as well, casually tugging Galahad into his arms. “Is that alcohol for us?”

“Promise to behave and you can have it,” Bors said evenly, holding the bottles just out of reach. Gawain nodded slowly and Bors took that as their promise and slid the bottles across the table. “Tristan’s on the job, so you lay low. Got it?”

“Got it,” they echoed in tandem, clinking the bottles together and parting completely to lean over the table and have a quiet discussion – the whispers a sign that Bors should depart and leave them to their privacy. Bors nodded, his job with the boys done for the night and heading back for the bar, grabbing one of the stools to sit on and watching the patrons of the bar wander in and out.

He hated the pre-kill time. It gave him a jittery anxiousness to his spine that he hated. He hated being put in a place where he was the one unsure. Bors  _hated_  being the victim and he hated relinquishing control.

The sooner Tristan returned from the job, the better.

24.

Tristan’s kill had gone down six hours before.

Arthur paced around the room, tapping his fingers on his chin again and again, turning in perfect turns, always pacing in the same line, in the same pattern. Tristan was late. Tristan was  _late_. Gawain and Galahad were barely paying attention, not even looking up from their stronghold of the couch – Galahad pinned down by Gawain’s body and Gawain distracting him with powerful kisses against his lips. Lancelot sighed, irritated and sneering, keeping his eyes away from Gawain and Galahad. There was a blanket in Lancelot’s hands and Arthur could tell from the look in his eyes that he was contemplating throwing it atop them, just to avoid looking. Dagonet had returned from the airport minutes ago – still in a business suit – and Bors had his head in his hands.

“He’s still not here,” Bors growled, his voice hoarse from an earlier argument with Vanora inside the base before he’d convinced her to go wait at home. “Arthur, call him again!”

“He doesn’t keep his mobile on,” Arthur snapped, pausing in his pacing. “Bloody hell, let’s just…” he gestured vehemently with his hands. “Let’s just relax.”

Lancelot snorted. “That’s rich. Relax,” he mocked. “And pacing helps that?”

“Lancelot,” Arthur gritted his teeth together, glaring, “if you can’t have faith in…”

“Oh, not with the faith again,” Galahad uttered in an exasperated tone from underneath Gawain, his voice convoluted thanks to Gawain’s lips. There was a muffled noise as Galahad pushed Gawain away precious centimetres with one hand. “Tristan is probably fine. Just relax! Arthur, sit  _down_ , Lancelot, stop glaring at us. Dagonet, why aren’t you changing, and Bors, can’t you…mpfh!” he gasped aloud, eyes widening as Gawain leaned down and kissed the breath out of him. He shifted slightly and pushed Gawain off. “I wasn’t  _finished_!” he shoved Gawain away, sitting up straight. “Why can’t you lot just realize that something may have gone wrong, but it’ll be okay!”

“Because things aren’t okay when it goes wrong,” Lancelot sniped at Galahad, hand clutching the arm of the chair like he was going to strike Galahad if he let it loose. “When things go wrong, they go  _badly_!” he shouted.

Galahad didn’t reply, merely sat silently, Gawain’s hand heavy on his back. His eyes drifted to the door and something about Lancelot’s words and tone must have unsettled him because he didn’t make the slightest move to return back to his position beneath Gawain. They sat in silence as Arthur began to pace slowly around the room again, one eye always on the clock.

“Where is he?” Bors asked quietly.

Arthur froze when he heard the front door being unlocked, watched in horror as Tristan staggered in, hair mussed, face bleeding, and clothes rumpled. Gawain rushed from his seat to help Tristan inside, Dagonet a few steps behind as they helped him in, his feet shuffling and cuts everywhere.

“Oh, God,” Arthur stared, frozen and numbed. “Tristan, what…”

Tristan stared up, his thumb to his lower lip. “It didn’t go well.” He leaned on Dagonet for support and looked up to the others, dark circles under his eyes and a doomed expression on his face. He looked sideways and took in the scared look on Gawain’s face, the expectant expressions of the others. He cast his eyes downwards. “We’re in trouble.”

25.

With the help of a bobby pin, a credit card, and a small screwdriver, Gawain could break into any door that didn’t have a professional lock on it. Of course, that had been his teenage years. Since then, he’d had a skeleton key commissioned every year, using his well-earned funds to smooth his way to criminal success, even if it was just petty theft. He’d bought a new skeleton key for this one because Tristan had borrowed the old one and it probably had his prints all over it.

The flat was nice in a womanly sort of way. It had flowers and cushions and potpourri. It was a nice place to lurk in the shadows, waiting until an actual, legitimate key was put in the lock and the lights were flicked on.

“Jesus fucking…” she pressed a hand to her chest, turning to find Gawain sitting there calmly. “You bastard!” Gawain ducked the small purse thrown at him. “What the hell are you doing in my flat!”

Gawain bent down and picked up the purse, leaning against the arm of the couch and giving a terse smile, clutching the purse and idly looking around. “Nice place,” he complimented. “They must pay you well, Guin. I mean, if that is your name. I don’t know if the police ask you to take on a false name to avoid incrimination,” he offered casually, keeping his eyes trained on her as she closed the door slowly, not a single of her moves sudden. She raised her eyebrows calmly, her demeanor immediately shifting into something calmer, much more calculating. “How long have you known who I was?”

“Since day one,” she replied evenly, folding her arms. “Very impassionate plea, by the way, about your man. Congratulations getting him.”

“How’d you know?” Gawain asked, keeping his voice flat.

She shrugged, not moving forward. “Surveillance photos. Witnesses in a few places. How do you think I got his name on the list?” she gave a slightly cocky smile. “Your woes of love got me a promotion. Thanks.”

“I’d watch what you say,” Gawain said mildly. “I’m armed.”

“So am I.”

He gave her a half-smile out of grudging respect as he pushed back his coat and showed the hilt of his sword and the gun he had tucked away. She grinned and reached into the back of her jeans, tugging out a pistol. Gawain rolled his eyes and let his jacket slip back into place, pushing himself off the arm of the couch and slowly walking up to her as she put her gun back, slipping it past the denim and against her skin.

“Now that we’ve pulled the machismo bullshit, what do you want before I call in backup to arrest you?” she asked coldly.

He bared his teeth slightly, a growl caught in his throat. “I’ll be brief.” He began to circle Guinevere slowly, brushing her hair aside and letting her smack his wrist every time. “You put Galahad on the wanted list. You got his sketch. You have put his life in danger and that, Guinevere,  _that_  was the stupidest mistake you could have ever made,” Gawain growled. “Because if he gets hurt, the person I’m going to is you. If he hurts, you’re going to pay for it.”

“Ah,” she smirked. “A threat. Like I’ve never heard that one.”

“I don’t mean physically, Mademoiselle,” he mocked. “Your connections will disappear. Your job? Gone. There might be some physical torture, but it won’t be me. It’ll be the one with the tattoos. Tristan always enjoyed law enforcement. They always scream the loudest, he said.”

“You don’t know what you’re doing,” she replied, her voice clipped.

Gawain leaned in from behind, resting his chin on her shoulder and breathing in the smell of her perfume. He rested one hand on the gun in the back of her tight jeans and paused, silent as he let the moment draw out. She didn’t move, she simply just continued breathing evenly – no shake to any part of her body, no panic, and no fear.

“If Galahad gets hurt,” Gawain whispered, “you will regret your part in this.”

He gave her a kiss on the forehead and left without another word.

26.

“Let’s go over it again,” Arthur sighed, erasing the whiteboard and pushing it a little closer to the couches where Tristan, Lancelot, and Bors were sitting. “No more lies, okay? Just the honest truth and  _where_  is Gawain?” he shouted to Galahad, who was helping Dagonet at the desk, shaking his head and muttering, “He went to get the chemicals over an hour ago and he’s…”

“He’ll be back!” Galahad snapped, cursing swiftly before turning back to the computer and quietly discussing something with Dagonet.

Arthur took a deep breath and returned to the board, uncapping the marker and pressing it to the top, writing ‘to do’ in his large, swooping cursive. “All right,” Arthur sighed, waving the marker in small circles, and glancing at Tristan, crossing his arms. “Okay, automatically we need to…” he murmured to himself, turning to the board and writing ‘monitor police scanners’ and ‘call in favours’ on the board. “Tristan, go over it again. What were the big mistakes?”

“Hair,” Tristan sighed, “he got a handful when he ripped my toque off. It’s probably scattered.”

“Call in the cleaners,” Lancelot nodded and Arthur wrote it on the board quickly. “They owe us a few for the legwork we did for them.” He glanced at Tristan, relaxing. “You’re going to have to lay low, idiot,” he muttered under his breath. “Blood?

Tristan nodded slowly, rolling his eyes. “Blood.”

Arthur and Lancelot groaned in tandem. “Personal supervision with the cleanup then,” Arthur sighed as he finished writing all the to-do’s on the list. He added a few quick abbreviated notes. “Dagonet, you’re fairly clean. You’re out there tomorrow or as soon as we can arrange this, but you’ll need someone to go with you. Lancelot?”

Lancelot shook his head. “Meeting with past clients,” he pressed his lips together. “Check-up, blackmail, so on and so forth.” He sighed. “Tristan’s out. Bors?”

“Got the kids tomorrow,” Bors scoffed. “Fuck,” he swore under his breath.

“I’ll go!” Galahad spoke up, looking up from the papers he was helping Dagonet sort. He stood up and joined the others, walking along slowly. “I can go!” he announced, eager and eyes wide. “Arthur, please, I can do this,” he swore, vehement with every word. “I’ve done everything else you’ve asked me to do. I can do it!”

“Somehow, I doubt Gawain will like this,” Lancelot muttered under his breath. He sighed slowly and gave an impassive shrug. “Why not?” he scoffed with a single, amused laugh – the laugh of ‘damned if we do, damned if we don’t’. “Send him in with Dagonet while we head over to the hotel. I do my work while you do legwork,” he pointed to Arthur with the neck of his bottle, “and we meet back here after.”

Arthur gave a smile, forgetting the troubles of the moment. “You’re learning,” he said proudly, the words wiping any smugness or pride from Lancelot’s face in a matter of seconds.

“Don’t say that,” Lancelot replied in a low tone. “This isn’t about that.”

“So, I can go?” Galahad asked hopefully.

The door clanged shut and the noise startled the relatively quiet room. Everyone looked over to find Gawain standing there with dinner in his hands and a few plastic bags filled with plain white bottles of chemicals; his face awash with pure confusion. Galahad immediately cleared his throat and preoccupied himself with helping Dagonet file the papers away as no one dared to say a word. Gawain stepped inside, giving everyone equal glares of suspicion, dropping the food on the table.

“Go where?” Gawain asked slowly. He immediately went straight for Galahad the minute he had taken his coat off and disarmed himself –  _for the better_ , thought Arthur. “Galahad?”

Galahad steeled himself, standing straight. “I’m going with Dagonet on the clean-up job. We’re going to make sure the cleaners do the job.”

Gawain paled. “No, you’re not,” he immediately blurted out, giving an off-kilter laugh. His face went through two uncomfortable-looking shifts as he grabbed Galahad by the forearm. “ _No_ ,” he said sternly when Galahad didn’t reply. “You’re  _not!_ ” He tugged Galahad with him to the training room, shoving him inside and slamming the door behind them. Everyone else could hear their combined voices – loud and muffled by the heavy door and walls – but this time, no one made a single move to run for the small room to watch.

Arthur pressed his lips together, hearing something crash to the ground and Galahad’s bellow reverberating in the room. He tapped the marker against the board and gave a small nod. “Okay,” he nodded, his other hand slipping into his pocket to grasp at his rosary. “Dagonet, you take Galahad with you tomorrow. Lancelot, we’re going to the hotel to rouse up some extra help. Tristan, stay here, the pub, or go to the regular restaurant if you have to eat.” He rubbed his eyes. “Let’s no one get hurt.”

His words were punctuated by the sound of something else breaking inside the training room.

27.

“Get in.”

Galahad had barely made it two steps out of the building and into the parking lot before Gawain was trying to force him into something else. He frowned, clutching his coat as Gawain opened the passenger door for him. He pushed past the car, digging his keys out of his pocket and doing his best to ignore Gawain’s existence. Galahad walked in the shadows, listening to his footsteps and sighing when he heard a car door slam and the fast footfalls of Gawain chasing after him, wrapping one arm around Galahad’s hip to turn him around and stop him from walking. Galahad growled, trying to shove Gawain away. “Don’t,” Galahad warned. “I’m ‘immature and reckless’ and I ‘don’t know what I’m getting into’,” he mocked Gawain’s tone of voice, giving a hard enough shove to send Gawain skittering back a few steps. He stormed off, getting about three steps closer to his car before he was tackled to the ground from behind. “Fuck,” he swore, turning slightly and looking up into Gawain’s eyes. “You bastard, what the hell is wrong with you?”

“I don’t care whose car we take, but I need to show you something,” Gawain replied evenly, helping Galahad to his feet and giving him a light push towards Gawain’s car, the door still open and the lights all on. “Come on, Galahad. You’re not running away.”

Galahad crossed his arms and gave a sneer as he slid into the passenger seat and let Gawain shut the door for him. Galahad didn’t bother to buckle up as Gawain sat in the driver’s seat and drove them away in silence, every movement seemingly routine. Galahad avoided looking up, instead folding small triangles with the tails of his shirt. Galahad couldn’t even hear the sound of his own breathing over the car’s ventilation and finally, they arrived somewhere. Gawain turned the car off, sacrificing the hum of the engine for the sound of crickets in the black of night.

“Where are we?” Galahad grumbled, giving the door a hard push open.

Gawain came around to the other side of the car and leaned on the hood, staring forward. In the distance were rows upon rows of graves. Galahad took a wary step forward, the ground damp beneath his feet. He swallowed the lump in his throat and turned back to see the darkened look in Gawain’s eyes.

“Is this…” Galahad asked, walking forward slowly, his voice in his throat.

Gawain cleared his throat, wrapping one arm around Galahad’s waist and giving him a small push forward. “The small corner in the back. That’s where we are.” Galahad quieted as Gawain tugged him along. “You’re still new to this, Galahad. I know you’re good at what you do, but you’re new.” Gawain exhaled slowly. “Clean-up missions tend to go badly when the job’s gone bad. People are angry, calls are made, people get hurt, people get  _killed_ ,” Gawain said evenly. They stopped in front of the graves, scattered flowers and trinkets all over the place, a few swords lying beneath the graves. “That’s how we lost Kay. Percival had a job that went badly and Kay was on the job with Arthur to clean it up.”

Galahad stared at the ground, unable to move.

“We lost Kay,” Gawain said simply, “when he went to do the same thing you’re going to do tomorrow.”

Galahad pressed his lips together, looking at the date on the grave. “That was five years ago,” he said quietly. “You’ve been doing this for that long?” Gawain didn’t reply, but merely gave a simple nod. “I can’t believe you’ve kept this from me,” he muttered to himself. “Look, five years. You’ve perfected the plans. Five years will have smoothed the way, I will be  _fine_ ,” he insisted.

Gawain turned Galahad to look at him. “Don’t go,” he pleaded quietly.

“I’m going,” Galahad whispered back, a shrug to his shoulders and a ‘why not’ smirk on his lips. He stormed away from Gawain’s grasp and promptly retreated to the car, slamming the door shut and simply waiting. Gawain sighed, staring down at the graves silently paying his respects before he went off to the car, hoping to possibly convince Galahad with logic and reason.

He knew he was doomed to lose this argument.

28.

Galahad sighed and idly tapped his fingers against his thigh as he watched the cleaners go about the work, cleaning up splattered blood and making sure the area was sanitized. “Don’t see why Gawain was so bloody upset about me…” Galahad muttered under his breath. Dagonet was leaning over the phone and trying to figure the last number dialed – a blood mark staining the telephone.

“It looks like he wasn’t dead when Tristan left,” Dagonet commented, snapping Galahad out of his daze. Galahad frowned, stepping over and studying the telephone, listening to it ring and ring, wondering just who a dead man would call before his imminent passing.

Galahad paced around, avoiding the men at work. “Why is everyone so worried about clean-up?”

Dagonet paused, listening to the phone click, the single word ‘speak’ over the line, and the beep of voice mail. He chewed his lip, trying to recall where he’d heard that voice before. With all their contacts and their liaisons with various underworld personalities, there was a wide array of people it could be. He closed his eyes and tried to run through his memory, trying to remember that particular inflection, recalling where he’d heard it last. He pressed his lips together.

“The mark made a phone call,” Dagonet said evenly, making a note in his book. “Not good. That could be anyone.”

“Anyone?” Galahad echoed.

Dagonet shrugged. “Tristan made a mistake. We’ll fix it.” He flipped his notebook shut. “They’re about done, let’s go,” he ordered. He pulled out his mobile and dialed. “Bors? It’s me. The mark made a phone call. He wasn’t dead when Tristan left.” Dagonet paused, listening to Bors swear over the phone. Galahad frowned, mouthing ‘is Gawain there?’ and raising his eyebrows. “Bors, is Gawain there?” Dagonet nodded, handing his mobile to Gawain.

Galahad cradled the phone in his shoulder. “Gawain, hi,” he said evenly. “Listen, I know you slept at the base, but you have to stay there again. We drove by the flat and there are police swarming the place.” He rolled his eyes. “No. It’s fine. Now, shut up and trust me.” He handed the phone back to Dagonet, grabbing his coat.

Dagonet gave a smirk and listened to Gawain bitch over the phone at him. “The pup is safe, don’t worry. Be careful. Tristan left the mark while he was still alive. A phone call was made.” He hung up and watched the cleaners make their way out of the room, snapping gloves off and shedding their coats. It wasn’t more than a few seconds later that Dagonet’s mobile rang again.

“Great,” Galahad muttered. “Probably Gawain to instill more fear into your heart in case I get a scratch.”

“Hello?” Dagonet picked up. “Arthur. We’re just done here.” He frowned. “Profiles? You mean…all right, yes, I understand.” He sighed and hung up, holding up one finger to Galahad and pressing the phone to his other ear. “Gawain, it’s me again. Listen, the police have profiles on each and every one of us. No more vague confirmation. We’re wanted.” He listened. “Some cop that Arthur’s going to check out. Be careful,” he warned, hanging up with a sigh. Galahad lingered in the doorway, waiting for Dagonet and then closing the door after them as they descended the stairwell.

“You’re fine about Tristan having done this?” Galahad asked, dubious.

Dagonet followed him down the stairs, flight after flight. “He made a mistake. We all do.”

Galahad frowned. “But it could be a life-threatening mistake. What if he called the police? What if they’re going to arrest us? What if someone was called who’s getting ready to kill  _us_! He left the guy he was supposed to kill alive! God knows who he phoned!” Galahad’s voice echoed in the stairwell.

“It was a mistake,” Dagonet repeated. “It will work out.”

“I don’t understand you,” Galahad said, twitching as he held the door open for Dagonet. Dagonet glided past him, footsteps echoing in the parking garage. “You’re loyal to a fault, even if it means you die? Even if it means your life is ruined?” Galahad’s voice cracked and resounded in the parking lot. “Christ,” he swore, rubbing his eyes. “How can you be so loyal to him!” Galahad raged. “He’s just Tristan!”

“He’s a fellow Knight,” Dagonet said evenly, clasping the keys in his hand. “Get in, I’m driving.”

“You?” Galahad scoffed. “Give me the keys, I’m the better driver.”

Dagonet stood at his full height and stared down at Galahad. Galahad just stared back up, smirking and letting out a tiny laugh, the laughter growing and bubbling over. Galahad opened his palm and beckoned.

“Come on,” Galahad urged.

Dagonet walked purposefully to the passenger door, holding it open. Galahad remained firm in his place, crossing his arms defiantly and leaning against one of the concrete support beams, challenging Dagonet with a stare. Dagonet rolled his eyes, giving a barely-audible growl and nodding to the car. “Get. In.”

“That’s the passenger seat. I’m driving,” Galahad said stubbornly, accentuating each vowel and consonant.

Dagonet slammed the door shut and took a few steps towards Galahad, already opening his mouth to retort. Galahad narrowed his eyes, uncrossing his arms slowly and standing up straight, eyes focused on something that had run past in the distance. He took a few steps closer, one hand on Dagonet’s elbow.

“Hey,” Galahad said, a cold chill running down his spine. “Hey, let’s get out of here.”

Dagonet stilled. “You see something?”

“I don’t know, I…”

Bullets rained down loudly on them, explosive in the confined space. Galahad swore and felt a slight pang in the side of his stomach, plaster and concrete flying everywhere and blinding him for a second. Galahad cursed constantly under his breath, wiping at his eyes and searching around him for their attacker, drawing his gun. “Fuck,” he swore. “Fuck, fuck,” he whispered, small hisses that barely echoed in the parking lot. He stumbled and dragged a barely-conscious Dagonet behind the car where they had cover. He stared down at Dagonet in horror, eyes stuck on the blossoming red crimson spreading from his stomach as Dagonet’s eyes slowly drifted shut, mouth parted and utterly silent in his suffering. “Oh, fuck,” Galahad whispered in horror, blinking slowly. He fumbled to get his mobile out of his coat, dialing quickly, no more bullets echoing around them. “I’ve got someone wounded. Parking garage beneath the Four Seasons. I need…I need an ambulance,  _now_!”

*

“His name is Daniel Smith,” Galahad spat out, bullet-quick as he rushed alongside the gurney, directing his words to the nurse. “It’s a gunshot wound to the stomach, and he got it about twenty minutes ago in a parking garage. The bastard ran, but left the gun. It’s still there. How is he?”

“How are  _you_?” another Doctor interrupted, grabbing Galahad by the arm and tugging him away from the speeding convoy. Galahad stared in confusion. The Doctor gestured to the side of Galahad’s shirt. “You’ve got what looks like a grazed bullet wound there.”

“I-I didn’t feel it,” Galahad responded, his eyes searching down the sterile, too-bright halls for where they’d taken Dagonet. “Is he going to be okay?” The Doctor was already patting his hands up and down Galahad’s chest. Galahad snarled and threw the Doctor’s hands off. “Is he going to be okay?” he repeated, louder and more cross. The Doctor gave Galahad an impatient look.

“I’m Dr. John Christopher, I’m going to need your name and you’re going to tell me what happened,” he replied evenly. “I need to get you treated.”

Galahad glared. “Why?”

Dr. Christopher urged a nurse to approach, a gurney in her hands as she hustled to his side and the both of them pushed Galahad onto it. Galahad felt slightly weakened, slowly starting to feel pain in his lower right stomach. He frowned as he looked up, another sharp bite of pain hitting him higher in his chest, to the left of the other pain.

“What’s going on?” Galahad demanded.

“You’ve got a grazed bullet wound,” the nurse replied, pushing the gurney along as a few Doctors joined.

“There’s also some ricochet,” Dr. Christopher murmured, slipping his stethoscope on. “I need Dr. Ryan in surgery with me and Dr. Thomas and Dr. Michaels with the other one. Now!” He looked down to Galahad, never tripping once as they barreled down the halls. “What’s your name?”

“Garrett,” Galahad choked out, barely able to remember his fake name in the panic.

Dr. Christopher pressed the stethoscope to his chest. “All right, Garrett. Well, you’ve got bleeding and a good chunk taken out of your right side. What’s worrying me more is on the left; you’ve got some bleeding and what looks to be pieces of bullet lodged in there between two of your ribs. Now, we’re going to get you under and get these out, but it’s going to be tricky, so it might take a while. Is there anyone we should contact?”

They pressed a mask over his mouth as Galahad blinked and tried to adjust to the harsh surgery lights. He blinked, and though the first thought was  _Gawain_ , the more practical thought swiftly followed.

“Call work. Arthur,” Galahad gasped out, inhaling the anesthetic. “Business card. My jacket.”

And then he slipped under a strong tug that threatened to consume him whole.

29.

Gawain and Bors were both standing with arms crossed in perfectly parallel stances when Tristan walked in the door, carrying a bag of food. He looked up and raised an eyebrow. “You look like you’ve slept here,” he shot at Gawain, throwing the bag of food to Bors, who caught it and gave Tristan a growl. “What’s going on?” Tristan sighed, collapsing into one of the chairs with his legs propped up on a stool.

“I have slept here,” Gawain growled. “The police are outside our place.”

“Our?” Bors took a moment to glance at Gawain.

“My flat. The one I share with Galahad,” Gawain cleared his throat, never taking his eyes off of Tristan. His anger returned to him swiftly and he nearly hurdled past the discomfort and back into his rage. “You fucking got caught. Blood at the crime scene! Hair! And do you know how easy it was for them to identify  _us_ , they have our damn profiles now! Even Galahad’s.” He kicked at the couch with all his strength and swore under his breath. “I should’ve known she was a cop. Fuck! I should have known.”

Tristan laughed coolly. “And you’re blaming this on me?”

“You’re the one who left evidence,” Gawain snapped. “Do you know how much trouble this could be? Dagonet and Galahad are out there  _right_  now cleaning up your mess!” he shouted.

Bors chuckled. “Always Galahad-this, Galahad-that. Don’t you think for yourself anymore?”

Gawain whirled, turning on him and drawing his sword, swiftly keeping Bors at swordpoint. His hands shook in just the smallest visible way and Bors kept on chuckling under his breath, hoarse and amused. Tristan watched with bemusement, his own sword already withdrawn and in his lap. Bors slowly raised his hands.

“What’s this?” Bors raised an eyebrow.

“Don’t dare act like Galahad is the problem,” Gawain growled through gritted teeth. There was a harsh blow to his stomach that sent him staggering back and he doubled over, looking up and realizing that Tristan had kicked him. In the time, Bors had drawn his sword and had it tracked on Tristan, while Gawain’s was still on Bors and Tristan had his sword out and pointed at Gawain. They stared at each other and Gawain craned his neck to talk to Tristan. “You’re going to get us arrested because you fucked up on the job.”

“I’ve got kids, you bastard,” Bors snapped, edging closer, his sword on the tip of Tristan’s skin. He whipped his head around to Gawain. “And yeah, this all started when you brought in your whelp! So I’ll act like he’s the problem.”

Gawain’s eyes blazed with fury as he dropped his sword and bent over, tackling Bors at the midsection and knocking him to the floor by throwing Bors’ centre of gravity off-kilter. He punched at him, but felt himself being hauled off by Tristan at the waist. Gawain kicked at Bors as he went, struggling to get out of Tristan’s hold and finally accomplishing it by bending over and flipping Tristan with brute strength.

Gawain lunged forward, ready to continue attacking Bors with a punch as the phone rang. Gawain landed a punch on Bors’ jaw and faltered at the sound of ringing long enough for Bors to get him in a headlock while he answered the phone.

“Yeah?” Bors snapped. “Yeah.” He looked down in horror, releasing Gawain who immediately began to circle Tristan – as Tristan did the same – itching to land just  _one_ punch. “Yeah.” He covered the mouth of the phone. “Get your hands the hell off each other,” he growled urgently. “Dag’s been hurt, bad.” He removed his hand from the phone. “We’ll be there.”

He snapped off the phone and glared at Gawain – who had Tristan in his grasp, ready to be punched.

“I’ll get the keys,” Bors said, scrambling around.

Gawain looked disdainfully at Tristan, who seemed ready to take any punishment that Gawain had in mind to dole out. Gawain pushed him away, growling angrily and thinking of how much he hated hospitals. He hoped that everything was all right with Dagonet. “You’re not fucking worth it,” Gawain said, spitting beside Tristan’s foot and grabbing his coat, turning and following Bors.

Tristan followed two seconds later.

30.

Arthur met up with Lancelot outside the elevators on the tenth floor, information in their hands and Arthur’s mobile pressed to his ear.

“Galahad and Dagonet are just leaving the room,” Arthur murmured, on his mobile – trying to get a hold of Tristan, but failing. He smiled at the bellman as he pushed into the elevator of their hotel and held the door open for Lancelot. Galahad and Dagonet were across town at the Four Seasons, trying to clean up the crime scene and Arthur was trying his best to find the cop that had been on duty and had called in Tristan’s description. He sighed. “No luck,” he clapped his mobile shut.

“Tristan isn’t picking up?” Lancelot smoothed his hair down.

“Does he ever?” Arthur sighed, pushing the ‘L’ button on the panel. “I think I’ve got all the information about the policewoman except for…”

“Hold on,” Lancelot interrupted, eyebrows crawling towards his brow slowly. “Police _woman_?” He snorted. “Go charm her now.”

“Some people would accuse you of sexism,” Arthur replied evenly as the doors glided open.

Lancelot smirked. “Lucky you’re not one of them, sweetcheeks,” he put on an American accent and pinched Arthur’s behind, heading towards the stairs and giving Arthur a shove towards the counter. Lancelot lingered in the doorway, making sure that Arthur was going to be prompt before disappearing. He winked and disappeared into the stairwell with a quick glide.

Arthur wasted no time in picking up his messages at the checkout desk and turning towards the stairs that led into the basement parking garage, no less than thirty seconds behind Lancelot. He descended the stairs with a bit of skip to his step, the thrill of getting information still buzzing in Arthur’s system. The parking garage was cold and his footsteps echoed as he made his way to the new BMW – a ‘company’ purchase to replace the old one because Lancelot had complained that the brakes were squealing. Lancelot threw the keys to him and Arthur caught them above his head, never faltering in his steps.

“Where are we off to now?” Lancelot mused, his back leaning against the driver’s side of the car and smudging the just-finished wax. Arthur frowned and swatted at Lancelot, murmuring under his breath, which only caused Lancelot to roll his eyes. “I’ll get off your precious car,” he muttered, opening the door and leaning against it as Arthur leaned in for a slow kiss. Arthur pulled away slowly, a dazed grin on his face, and soon, he was dazed by the blinding flash of what seemed to be a camera.

He frowned and turned swiftly in a circle, searching the perimetre. His eyes widened in panic when he saw a gun angling around another car.

“Lancelot! In the car!” Arthur snapped.

He shoved him in through the driver’s side and dove in after him, slamming the door shut. The bullet hit the bumper, putting a dent in the new finish. Arthur shoved Lancelot off the gearshift and the tires squealed as Arthur slammed the gas and reversed out of the spot, leaving tire marks as he shifted into forward and sped out of the garage, another car quickly following in close pursuit. Arthur took the first right turn, banking hard; the gravity throwing Lancelot into his lap.

“Stay down,” Arthur hissed, never taking his eyes off the road as Lancelot shifted, his head on Arthur’s thigh and his body pressed away from the shift so that Arthur could still drive. The back window exploded in a shower of glass when a bullet hit and Lancelot swore loudly, all while Arthur continued to steer through moving traffic. “Lancelot, if you could please just keep  _quiet_ …” Arthur snapped out, rotating the steering wheel hard at an intersection and pulling a u-turn, speeding the other way. He checked the rear-view mirror compulsively and saw a flood of traffic preventing their tail from doing the same.

Arthur took a few turns down narrow streets, suburbs, until he finally pulled into a field, beside a stream, braking hard and parking parallel to the small trickle of water. He was breathing hard, giddy and relieved laughter slowly overtaking him as he looked down at Lancelot. Lancelot was grinning too widely, the smile of someone who had just encountered too close a call. Together, they laughed with desperate relief, Lancelot prying himself off of Arthur’s lap and sitting upright.

“Now, who  _was_  that?” Lancelot swallowed his worry. “That’s the question.” 31.

Gawain stumbled into the hospital behind Bors, sliding to the side to get out of the way of the automatic doors. “Daniel,” Bors rasped. “We got a call saying he’d just come out of surgery. What happened?” The sound of artificial life support echoed around them, burning into Gawain’s hearing. He absolutely  _hated_  the bright glare of the hospital, seeping into his skin as though trying to invade him from the outside. Gawain searched for Galahad. He’d been with Dagonet, surely he should be around there someplace.

“It was a bullet to the stomach,” one of the Doctors on duty flipped his chart and smiled wanly. “I’m Dr. Christopher, I was in adjacent surgery, but I supervised. There was an exit wound. It missed the major arteries. He’s going to be fine, though you should thank the young man who brought him in. Mr. Smith may have bled out if he hadn’t been brought in immediately.”

Gawain stepped forward, noting that Tristan was already lurking off to the side, drifting into clusters of people and finding a way to sneak away in order to go find Dagonet. Gawain cleared his throat and tried to quell his rising panic.

“The young man,” Gawain echoed the Doctor’s tone. “Is he in a waiting room or…”

Dr. Christopher pressed his lips together, staying silent.

“What happened?” Bors asked, his voice sounding unsure.

“Your friend Daniel is fine, as I said. Clean exit, no issues. However, the young man…Garrett…there’s the bullet that grazed his side, which is not the issue. The problem of course, was the ricochet from another bullet. We found pieces between his ribs and he’s still bleeding.”

“Still?” Bors and Gawain repeated together.

“He’s in surgery,” Dr. Christopher nodded. Gawain was staggering backwards until the back of his legs hit a chair and he collapsed into it, staring forward, numb. Bors continually checked back, searching Gawain’s face for emotion, but when he found none and determined it a lost cause, turned back to the Doctor. “It should only be another hour or so. He looks like he’ll be fine. Of course, not without a good dose of healing time for it, but he’ll be fine.”

Dr. Christopher nodded once more, pivoted, and walked away in the harsh lights.

Bors turned and studied Gawain carefully, hesitant in his approach. He sat down and gently nudged Gawain in the shoulder, trying to get any kind of reaction. It took about four good, hard nudges before Gawain looked up and had the semblance of any emotion besides shock on his face. Bors raised an eyebrow and adjusted in his seat until they were sitting there shoulder-to-shoulder.

“He’s hurt,” Gawain said evenly.

Bors grunted, not really sure what civil society would say. Then again, he was never civil society. “You gone and fallen for this whelp? You care that much?”

“For once in your life,” Gawain growled, “shut the fuck up. God  _damn_  it. I told him that he shouldn’t be out there with Dagonet. That should have been Tristan’s job. Now he’s hurt.”

“We’ve all been hurt in the process. We’ve all got our wounds.”

“Not like this.”

Gawain neglected to move and in the silence, all Bors could do was stare straightforward and hope that Dagonet was going to be all right and that Gawain’s whelp would be okay, but only because Gawain and his own brats seemed to like him well enough.

“Hey,” Bors nudged Gawain again. “He’s a stubborn bastard, right?”

“Right,” Gawain agreed, his voice even and numb.

Bors smirked. “He’ll be on his back under you in no time.”

Strangely, instead of getting hit, Bors only received an appreciative snort of laughter and a genuine smile from Gawain. With a nod, Gawain stood and waited for Bors to join him as he took a deep breath and glanced down the hall. There were fewer people and neither of them could find Tristan at all in the bright lights – though they knew, but would never say, that if Tristan didn’t want to be seen even in the harshest light of day, he would find a way.

“Let’s check on Dag, why don’t we?” Gawain murmured, already one step down the hall.

Bors followed. They followed each other to the depths of hell every day. One trip down the hospital corridors was just another step into the lower circles.

*

Tristan watched through the glass as Dagonet slept peacefully in his hospital bed. He hadn’t moved since the nurses had told him which room Dagonet had been assigned to, just as Tristan was sure that Gawain was by Galahad’s bedside the moment that he had found out which room he’d been appointed to. Hours had passed since they had called Arthur and Lancelot with the message ‘Code Five’. They had yet to show up.

Tristan heard a throat cleared behind him and he turned to find Lancelot standing there, looking tousled and worse for the wear.

“Where’s Arthur?” Tristan frowned.

Lancelot shook his head, clearly irritated. “Errand.” He peered into Dagonet’s hospital room, Lancelot’s posture and his expression vulnerable. “I can’t believe he got shot,” Lancelot murmured quietly. “We were followed,” he explained to Tristan, not taking his eyes off of Dagonet. “Someone was trying to kill us. It looks as though we weren’t the only ones.” He pressed one hand to the glass and shook his head. “I’m surprised. Dagonet is usually careful.”

Tristan turned. “Dagonet’s going to be fine,” he said lightly. “Yes, he was shot, but he’ll heal well. We’re not worried about him.”

“Then why are we worried?” Lancelot frowned, confused.

Tristan blinked, shaking his head. “You haven’t heard? The whelp got shot too. Ricochet one side, grazed wound on the other. They’re far more concerned about him.” He snorted and shook his head. “Dag’s just on too many drugs to be conscious.” He sighed and checked his mobile, frowning when there were no missed calls, no voice mails, and the mobile was clearly on. “My contact was supposed to phone. I have an idea who’s behind this, but I wanted some confirmation. I’m fairly sure a contract was signed in this case.” He smiled thoughtfully. “I wonder what the prices on our heads is.”

“Have you gone to see him?” Lancelot cut in, alarmed. “Galahad! You’ve…why aren’t you standing outside  _his_  room, why aren’t you checking to make sure he’s okay!”

Tristan raised an eyebrow. “It’s one visitor only. You really think Gawain has left his bedside?” He pressed his lips together, smugly grinning as a text message flashed on his mobile. “Perfect,” he murmured to himself, walking down the hall. “I’m going to hide in the stairwell and make a call. You can go and check on Galahad if you want. I imagine Gawain will yell at you just as loudly as he did Bors and I.”

Lancelot frowned, watching Tristan walk off. “Are  _you_  okay?”

Tristan glanced over his shoulder, briefly shouting, “I will be,” back to Lancelot before pushing into the stairwell and hiding against the wall as he made his phone call.

32.

Arthur parked on the side streets, rosary beads slipping between fingers as he silently prayed for luck, for protection, and for this to be the right lead. He’d checked his mobile to find Lancelot calling him and informing him that Dagonet and Galahad had been shot, Galahad in the more critical condition, but Dagonet unable to stay conscious thanks to Bors’ insistence that they not hesitate with the drugs. He’d put Lancelot in charge of the situation until he arrived and had hung up in the middle of Lancelot’s high-strung tirade. He kept his sunglasses on his face as he leaned against the bus stop and watched people go in and out of the office building, all of them in business suits and striding with a purpose.

He saw the one he wanted walk out fifteen minutes later, clad in business-like attire and heels that didn’t seem to match the rest. She walked like she knew half the world wanted her and she did it with beauty and flair, her hair curled and billowing as she dug her keys out of her purse, one hand on her mobile. Arthur pushed away from the bus stop and crossed the street, deftly dodging slowed and stopped cars as he went, the red light at the intersection allowing him the ease.

He fell into the shadow of her footsteps, always staying four steps behind.

Somewhere along the way, she made an odd turn into an alley, hanging up the mobile and picking up her already brisk pace. He followed her, tucking his sunglasses into his coat pocket and sliding his hands inside his pockets as well, casually slowing down as she turned around to face him.

“You’re not very good at tracking,” she commented evenly. “And what are  _you_  here to threaten me about? Another case of love you don’t want me to ruin?” she asked, raising one eyebrow to punctuate her caustic tone.

“I assumed someone had already been to see you,” Arthur began evenly. “No,” he shook his head, giving her a smile, a false sense of security. “Ma’am, I’m not here to threaten you.”

“You followed me into a dark alley,” she accused.

Arthur snorted, bemused. “You  _led_  me into a dark alley.” He shook his head, advancing by two steps as she stood her ground, never faltering under his gaze or his casual, yet threatening way of circling her. “You’re a piece of work, I found out. You befriend wanted men, you sleep with them, and then you turn on them the next morning and arrest them. Were you intending to do that with us as well?”

“My mark fell through,” she replied coldly.

Arthur smirked. “You picked Gawain. You’ll likely regret that.”

“Oh, please,” she gave a haughty laugh. “He’s a little boy in love. Do you really think he’s going to be able to hurt me?”

Arthur leaned in, hands on her hips as he gave her a sharp push to the alley wall – a push that she went along with easily, hitting the wall with a ‘thud’ – and she grinned viciously up at him. She dropped the briefcase and let Arthur take each of her wrists in his hands, pinning them above her head. She gave a cocky little smile and pushed her hips a little forward.

“You’re Arthur,” she said knowingly. “I was wondering when you would show up.”

“That ‘little boy in love’?” he mocked her tone, pulling away so that her pushes forward didn’t put their hips in contact at all. “He just had his object of affection shot and put into critical condition. Guinevere, I would start worrying,” Arthur advised, his voice low and threatening. He gave a wry grin. “There are men after us now, more hired hitmen. Who are you going to go after, Guinevere? Us? Them? Well, actually, you’re not going after anyone,” he commented evenly.

“Excuse me?” she asked coolly, her brow furrowed.

“You were just pulled off the case less than fifteen minutes ago when Mr. Laurence Black called in with a report that your life was threatened by various members of the mafia, a phone call was made from a man the mafia members murdered regarding a conspiracy to plot for your life. There are photographs of you being threatened by some of them, actually. Very realistic. It landed on the district chief’s desk with the phone records, scant reports, and a confession from someone who confessed that you were, indeed, on their list of people to kill next and that there are groups still after your life,” Arthur explained evenly, a small and smug smile on his face. Lancelot had pulled through and passed the test with flying colours. He’d be an excellent replacement.

Her eyes widened in fury. “You doctored pictures of me and faked evidence?” she raged, fighting against Arthur’s grip on her, flailing and earning no ground. “You fucking bastard, I ought to castrate you for this, you  _won’t_ …”

“Get away with it?” Arthur interrupted, his voice even. “Ma’am, if you’re lucky, Tristan and Gawain won’t hunt you down and kill you for the  _pleasure_  of it. You’ve been taken off the case for your protection because I don’t want slightly innocent blood shed over this and no doubt, Gawain will be out for your throat the moment he leaves Galahad’s bedside.”

“I’ll leave, I’ll turn you in,” she threatened.

“With what evidence?” Arthur asked tiredly. “The scene is clean by now, as I’m sure you know. No one’s done anything except get shot. Incidentally, if you do try and come after us, there’s a far more interesting story Mr. Black has set aside for you. It involves the murder of one Mr. Stevenson.”

“You think you can frame me?” she snarled.

Arthur arched an eyebrow. “We’ve done it once. Trust me when I say that you don’t want us as your enemies. I’d offer you a place on our contact roster, but somehow, I doubt you’d enjoy that.”

“You’ll never have the law on your side,” she murmured in disgust, curling her fingers into her palms. Arthur released her and withdrew his gun, taking three steps back and always keeping her at gunpoint in case she made a sudden move. “I won’t let you out of my sights, I won’t let you…”

“I will kill you,” Arthur interrupted, his voice even. “I don’t want to, and I’d rather avoid it, but if you insist on making things so difficult, I will send someone on the job to kill you. Do you value your life, Guin? Do you want to live?”

She stood her ground, glaring.

“All I ask is that you drop our case,” Arthur continued, his gaze intense and his words clipped. “Think about your well-being, ma’am, that’s all I ask. If you leave, if you request a transfer to somewhere else, you will be safe. If not, I can’t make promises that you’ll go unharmed.”

“Your boys would really come after me that viciously?” Guinevere questioned mildly, straightening her jacket as Arthur kept the gun trained on her heart, his hand never faltering once.

“They would have done it already if not for the group’s current status,” Arthur nodded. “Regarding the law. We have three police officers who work with us. Not all the men we kill are virtuous upstanding men, you know. Some members of the police force are more than happy to help us dispose of them and turn a blind eye to the other business deals we help facilitate.” He tilted his head slightly. “You’re a stubborn woman. You think you’re failing if you give up. Guinevere, take my advice and  _go_. Your life is too high a price to pay to pursue this case.”

“And I should trust you?” she scoffed.

He nodded simply. “If we slip up again, by all means, come after us. I know for a fact you will have a  _very_  difficult time this time around and the fact that you’ve meddled with Gawain and his affairs puts your own life in danger. Leave. Work on other cases. Pretend you never heard of us.”

He tucked his gun away in its holster inside his coat and studied her for a moment, keeping an eye on the placement of her hands and making sure she wasn’t about to withdraw a concealed weapon. He gave her a small smile and listened to the clock chiming somewhere in the distance, most likely at his cathedral.

“Are you going to listen to me?” he asked evenly.

Her chin was jutting out stubbornly, fury in her eyes. “Yes.”

“Good. You just saved your own life.”

33.

They had moved Galahad out of the ICU and into his room four hours ago and Gawain had yet to move from his bedside. Around twenty minutes ago, a nurse had come in with a bucket of ice chips and a small glass, wearing a tired smile as she told Gawain that Galahad was likely to come out of the anesthetic any minute now and that he might enjoy something cool for his mouth.

Gawain swirled the melting ice chips in the cup, staring down at them and listening to the steady beeping of the heart rate monitor. Gawain intended to be there when he woke up, hopefully with some ice intact so he could  _do_  something instead of sitting there uselessly. He sighed, swirling his index finger around the ice chips, getting up to get a new cup – his fourth now in waiting for Galahad to awake. Gawain had no idea where anyone else was and he didn’t care much. He just wanted Galahad to wake up, just so he’d know that there were no complications from the surgery.

“Hey,” the word was barely more than a whisper, but Gawain heard it. He was by the bedside almost immediately, sitting in the chair and draping his arms over the railings. Gawain tried to smile, but his brows knit together in worry and he let out a relieved laugh, brushing one hand through Galahad’s hair. “You look like death,” Galahad whispered, eyes half-open.

Gawain sputtered with more relieved laughter, louder than before. “You scared the living fuck out of me,” Gawain accused Galahad. “Why’d you go and get shot?” he closed his eyes tightly, grasping Galahad’s hand with both of his own and pressing it to his forehead, simply taking inordinate pleasure in feeling Galahad’s pulse healthily beating.

“Didn’t mean to,” Galahad replied in a small voice. “Dagonet okay?”

“He’s fine,” Gawain reassured him. “Are  _you_  okay?”

Galahad pressed his lips together. “I hurt,” he said slowly, lips curving upwards in a tremulous smile.

“The Doctor said it was probably shock that was letting you go without pain before,” Gawain commented quietly, shaking his head as he rubbed his thumb over Galahad’s lips and felt the smile. “I hope you realize you’ve just used up every last close call. You’re never allowed to do that to me again.” He clasped Galahad’s hand a little tighter. “Don’t… _don’t_  get hurt on me, Galahad. I didn’t bring you into this to get hurt.”

Galahad’s smile turned wistful. “Things happen,” he whispered, burrowing deeper into the white sheets – everything sanitized as much as it could be – while his eyes began to slip shut. “Lots of things happen and they’re not all you’fault,” he mumbled drowsily. Gawain’s gaze slipped to the IV and he wondered briefly just how many drugs they were pushing into Galahad’s system. “M’going to have to convince you o’that.”

“Take your time,” Gawain insisted softly, sitting back in the chair and allowing Galahad to keep a firm grasp on his hand.

34.

Days passed and while Galahad seemed to be healing faster than anyone expected, Dagonet’s wound was giving him trouble in both standing, walking, and the pain seemed substantially lasting. Bors continued to insist that he be given the strongest drugs, which kept him sleeping the majority of the time. They took turns by Dagonet’s bedside; even Galahad when Gawain would help him there, or a willing nurse would take one look at his face and give him a wheelchair to traverse the hospital with. At first, Arthur had refused to leave, but Lancelot had forcibly dragged him away to rest, and they took turns with Dagonet while he slept, muttering things they never would in the presence of someone else. Dagonet’s dreams were rife with whispered words and confessions.

“I think I love him,” Gawain confessed. He tapped his fingers along the sheets and always glanced out into the hallway where he knew Galahad was sitting. He hung his head and sighed. “If not for me, he wouldn’t be hurt. I’m the one that got him hurt.”

The sun rose.

“I think he loves me,” Galahad whispered, his hands wringing a pillow as he exhaled. “All the money in the world and this is worth far more than anything I’ve got. Well…maybe not the sword…all right, all right, fine, even the sword. I love him, but I don’t want him to be hurt. I don’t want to be hurt anymore. What do I do?”

The sun set.

“Arthur’s training me for this. I don’t want it,” Lancelot hissed as Dagonet slept. The sun warmed the back of Lancelot’s neck and it matched the rising flush in his cheeks at the mere  _thought_  of leading. “I-I…Christ, this is hard,” he swore, pacing about the room. “When is he going to understand that I’m not ready!”

Evening set in.

“I’m not ready for death, Dag. I’m not,” Bors rasped, pictures of his children on Dagonet’s bed. “I need to see them grow up. Have their own miserable kids.” He coughed hoarsely. “You need to be there too. We need to get out.”

Midnight came and went.

“Don’t you dare ever do that again,” Tristan threatened. “I’m not ready to see you die.” He carved small symbols into his forearm as he spoke, tiny letters in blood and not once was his voice affected by pain. “I die before you. We swore that in blood. I swore that to the Gods. My death keeps you alive.” The darkest blanket of night was upon them and Tristan carved in the light of the moon. “I die. Everyone lives. That was my promise.”

Night passed.

“God, why have you let harm come to my men?” Arthur pleaded desperately. “Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name, thy kingdom…every night I pray to you, every night I pray that I might take the harm that comes to us, that I alone suffer! Thy kingdom come, thy will be done on Earth as it is in Heaven.”

Arthur closed his eyes.

“Give us this day our holy bread and forgive us…” he tripped over the words, his gaze on Dagonet. “Forgive us,” he said with more force. “ _Forgive us_  our trespasses, so that we may forgive those who trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation, Lord, but deliver us from evil,” Arthur mumbled.

“Amen.”

Morning came once more.

All eyes were drawn to Dagonet’s hospital bed and the silence was overwhelming, the only sound in the air was the beeping of the machines tracking Dagonet’s heart. Arthur hadn’t left his side, clinging so tightly to the rosary that there were marks on Arthur’s palm. He’d prayed all night, his lips chapped and his voice hoarse. Now, all the Knights were in the room for a summoned meeting. Gawain held close to Galahad, sitting in the chair beside him and his hands never left the boy’s body. If Arthur could describe it at all, it was as though all the lights had gone off in Gawain’s world save for one spotlight on Galahad. Tristan leaned against the closed door, arms crossed, and the smallest hint of his knife showing. Bors was on the opposite side of Dagonet’s bed and Lancelot was behind Arthur – always backing him up.

Arthur inhaled sharply, standing slowly and making his way to the end of Dagonet’s bed. He heard the light tap of skin on skin and Bors murmuring, “Dag, wake up,” and Arthur took that as his signal to begin.

“Knights,” he said evenly. “It’s come to my attention that perhaps I haven’t been thinking about the good of us. That perhaps, I’ve made mistakes.”

Silence.

“And so,” Arthur sighed. “It’s come to this. The door is behind Tristan. Knights, you have served me and you have done it with loyalty, honour, and skill. You are my men, and I am far prouder of you than I could be of any family,” Arthur swore vehemently, “of any relation, but if you see it fit to walk out that door today, I would understand. I would understand if you felt that today was your last day of service to me and to those who pay for us.”

He heard rustling behind him. “Arthur,” Lancelot said quietly.

“You’ve given me your time and your oaths and your  _blood_ ,” he said, choking on the last word as he looked from Dagonet to Galahad. He closed his eyes tightly and took a deep breath. When he opened his eyes, he found a new world. “And now, I am giving you a choice.”

“Arthur,” Lancelot protested again.

“The door is over there.”

The telltale sounds of shuffling assaulted Arthur’s ears as he watched Gawain aid Galahad in standing, Galahad’s face a portrait of such pain and anguish that Arthur wished they’d never taken the boy aboard. Gawain smiled tersely as he nearly carried Galahad on their way to the door.

“This is far too high a price to pay,” Gawain whispered, his hold on Galahad tightening. The only words from Galahad were silent and expressed in the pain on his face. “Far too high,” he repeated, his voice mumbled. Galahad leaned closer and remained ever silent as Gawain pushed open the door and led him down the hall. Tristan caught Arthur’s gaze and shook his head.

“Not you,” Lancelot hissed.

Tristan gave a calm smile, tucking away his knife. “It’s my mess. I should clean it up. You shouldn’t have me on your shoulders to burden your stride forward,” he said clearly, as though he’d been thinking on it. He turned and slipped away from the room, not even leaving a shadow as he went. Arthur looked down at the ground, closing his eyes tightly.  _Three men_.

And then there was the scraping of a chair.

Arthur looked up sharply, whirling to glare at Bors. “Bors,” he said helplessly, his eyes wild with panic. Bors shrugged apologetically, turning and mouthing ‘sorry’ to Dagonet. He patted Arthur on the shoulder, pressing their foreheads together. “Bors, no,” Arthur pleaded, panic in his voice.

“I’m too old,” his voice was weary and hoarse. “My Vanora’s got another on the way.”

“Bors,” Arthur pleaded as Bors pulled away, clapping Arthur on the back.

Bors paused at the doorway and turned around. “If it’s a boy,” he said, his fingers wrapped around the handle of the door, “he’s going to be named after you.” He cleared his throat. “Lancelot. Dag.” He looked up at Arthur and shook his head. “I’m sorry, Arthur. I’m too old.”

The door slammed as loud as a bullet piercing concrete.

Arthur closed his eyes.

35.

“You can take him home, but don’t dare let him get away with physical activity,” the nurse instructed sternly, handing Gawain a few paper bags. “These are his drugs. He takes three of those a day for the pain, five of the blue ones a day with food, and if he’s in a lot of pain, you can give him some of the stronger pain medication, but use it sparingly.”

“I understand,” Gawain nodded, glancing over his shoulder to check on Galahad. He had insisted on dressing himself, managing to slip into his jeans without trouble, but he was having some trouble with his shirt. Gawain pressed his lips together and excused himself quietly to help Galahad slide into his shirt, earning a glare from Galahad, but Galahad quickly allowed Gawain to let his hands hover lightly over Galahad’s shoulders, straightening his shirt. Gawain made his way back to the nurse. “Anything else?”

“He’ll have to bathe extremely carefully. He’ll likely need help,” the nurse went on sympathetically. “I suppose he has that?”

“He has that,” Gawain confirmed quickly, packing things up in a bag.

“Gawain,” Galahad commented quietly. Gawain turned around and found Galahad holding out his coat with a resigned look on his face. Gawain turned quickly to the nurse and gave her a smile.

“Is that everything?” Gawain asked.

The nurse handed him a booklet. “Call if you have questions. Typically, common sense will do. He’ll need to come in for check-ups every few days so we can be sure he’s healing well. Please be careful,” she insisted.

Gawain watched her leave the room, closing the door gently behind her before he turned back to Galahad and approached, taking the coat out of his hands and standing behind Galahad, making sure it was on properly. Gawain rested his hands on Galahad’s shoulders as he finished everything, nothing left to be done.

“You don’t want to say goodbye?” Galahad murmured quietly.

Gawain made a non-committal noise. “Not particularly. The sooner we get out of this damned group, the sooner you’re safer and I can get you back to health.” He gave an even grunt. “Guinevere disappeared from her flat, just up in the air. I was really looking forward to some just retribution,” he growled, rubbing one hand up and down Galahad’s upper arm.

“We’re actually leaving then?”

“This place and the Knights, yeah,” Gawain confirmed. “You got hurt, and I’m going to help you heal. It means we’re going to leave them for a while.”

“For good?” Galahad turned, staying in Gawain’s grasp. His face looked innocent and vulnerable at the moment and Gawain immediately wished he had never brought Galahad into this. Galahad frowned as Gawain slipped a pill into Galahad’s mouth and held up water for him. “Are you m’nurse?” Galahad mumbled, swallowing the water and the pill. He gave a mischievous grin. “If you are, can we get you one of those little white skirts? Surely it’d show off your figure.”

“No,” Gawain firmly responded, slipping one arm around Galahad’s back and bending to pick up the bag of clothes he’d brought, which was now filled with drugs and assorted possessions. “Let’s get you home.”

“Where you’ll give me a spongebath?” Galahad asked hopefully.

Gawain laughed. “Where I’ll give you a spongebath.”

*

Gawain held the cloth above the bowl of water, pleased that Galahad had been honestly surprised that Gawain hadn’t been just joking around with him about the spongebath. He had stripped Galahad of all his clothes slowly, taking time to undo the bandages around the wounds and leaning in to kiss slowly as he pressed the damp cloth to the wounds to tidy them, giving Galahad something for distraction. Galahad gave a weak whimper of pain into the kiss as he dug his hands into Gawain’s hair and clutched tightly, biting Gawain’s lower lip as Gawain dug a little deeper to clean the ricochet wounds.

Finally, Gawain parted and pulled the cloth away. “There,” he smiled. “Not so bad?”

“No,” Galahad panted. “Fucking  _terrible_.”

Gawain rolled his eyes. “I’m sorry I’ve only had a sword wound puncturing my chest. I can’t compare the experience of pain.”

Galahad looked up in a panic. “When did that happen!” he demanded, his voice high-strung. He sat up and gave a cry of pain, making Gawain glare at him viciously and give him a gentle push back down. “You were hurt? Gawain!” He lay back with great hesitance, only staying with Gawain splayed his fingers over Galahad’s collarbone and leaned in to kiss softly along Galahad’s neck, traversing lower as he bathed Galahad, lightly dabbing with gentle care.

“Two years ago,” Gawain replied quietly.

“You got hurt too,” Galahad commented indignantly. “Why didn’t you leave then?”

“Because you don’t just leave. What happened last week is something that has never happened before,” Gawain continued in a soft tone, lowering him and massaging Galahad’s thighs with the damp cloth, kissing at his hips. “We were lucky, Galahad. We were incredibly lucky. We got a second chance.”

“But what about my debt?” Galahad asked softly.

Gawain paused, hands on Galahad’s knees. “We’ll figure something out.”

36.

Lancelot arrived to Arthur’s darkened flat, knocking on the door and receiving no answer. He sighed and rubbed his temples, wondering where Arthur could be. He’d called the pub, Vanora, Gawain, and Tristan – receiving no answer from the last – and had discovered nothing about Arthur’s whereabouts. He knocked a little harder, just in case Arthur was listening to something or watching the television.

Lancelot heard thumping around and he frowned, pounding harder on the door, wondering if Arthur was in trouble. “Arthur?” he called out loudly, banging with his fist. “Arthur, open the door!”

Two minutes later, the door was drawn open. Lancelot stared and gave a sigh as Arthur revealed that the only trouble he was having was with sobriety. Arthur’s breath reeked of whiskey and his hair was tousled, clothes mussed and his eyes had a certain reddened nature to them. Lancelot shook his head, pushing inside and locking the door behind him. “Arthur,” he chided, wrapping one arm around Arthur’s waist as Arthur hiccupped and stumbled back towards the bedroom.

“I…” Arthur murmured, his voice heavily slurred. He crawled onto his bed when they reached the bedroom. Lancelot crouched down to pick up the empty bottle of whiskey and he sighed, knowing that it was a new purchase from yesterday, meaning Arthur had drank the entire thing in one go. Arthur gave a sputter of a laugh, looking at Lancelot’s face. “My friend Jack…he helped me,” he grinned, writhing onto his back and staring up at Lancelot with his head at the foot of the bed.

“Arthur, why didn’t you call me?” Lancelot tilted his head to speak to Arthur.

“You’re upside down,” Arthur commented distractedly, his brow furrowed as he reached out, trying to touch Lancelot. “I wanted to be alone. I was left, I am alone. Alone. M’in this alone.”

“No, you’re not,” Lancelot replied vehemently. “You have Dagonet. And you have me.”

“I do have you,” Arthur said quietly, looking up still, his arm collapsing back onto the sheets as his face took on a more serious expression while he still looked up. A pensive look flickered over Arthur’s features as he reached up and grasped Lancelot’s hand, tugging him to sit down on the bed. “Lancelot…”

“I’m here, Arthur,” Lancelot assured him, looking around the room for a bowl to put cold water into to give Arthur a cold cloth for his head, simultaneously wondering if Arthur kept his drinking glass beside the bed as usual – so he could have something in the middle of the night if he woke up parched. Arthur twisted a little on the black bedding so he could look at Lancelot.

Arthur blinked slowly, looking up as though he were in a daze. “Move in with me?” he asked quietly, as though his words were thickened. There was no doubt, though, that Arthur was completely serious.

Lancelot gave an uncomfortable chuckle. “Are you sure there’s room for me  _and_  your God?” He felt slightly surprised, touched, and wholly like this was a passing dream. They’d known each other for nearly fifteen years now and never once had Arthur made any sort of hints that he wanted Lancelot to live with him.

“Move in with me,” Arthur repeated, his voice just as slurred and just as quiet, but it held more firmness. “I need…I need someone. I need something. I need…I need you. Move in with me,” he repeated over and over again, his eyes slipping shut as he grasped Lancelot by the tails of his shirt and tugged himself into an upright sitting position. He didn’t lean in so much as collapse into Lancelot’s arms, lips immediately pressing to Lancelot’s neck – not quite moving, but merely resting there – and breathing in Lancelot’s cologne mixed with the scent of his sweat.

“Arthur, are you going to remember this come morning?” Lancelot quietly asked.

Arthur pulled away, far enough to look Lancelot in the eyes. “Move in with me,” he said once more, his words even and weighted with the severity of the decision.

Lancelot nodded slowly, his voice caught in his throat. “Yes,” he finally whispered, the word sounding strangled and filled with all the emotions he thought he’d lost the ability to experience. He leaned in and kissed Arthur slowly, pushing him down to the bed and covering Arthur’s body with his own, slipping his hands inside Arthur’s button-down and pushing each button out of its hole. “You’re not alone,” he whispered as he undressed Arthur. “You have me. I’ll always be here.”

Arthur took deep, even breaths, his eyes half-lidded as Lancelot pushed his shirt off, unbuttoning the black trousers and pushing them down until Arthur was only wearing his boxers, whispering mumbled and slurred drunken words that Lancelot couldn’t decipher.

Lancelot smiled endearingly, one hand cupping Arthur’s cheek. “It’ll be okay,” he whispered, leaning in and whispering the words again and again as he lightly pressed his lips to Arthur’s jawline, grabbing the blankets and covering Arthur with them, not once prying Arthur’s hands off of him as Arthur clung tightly. “It’ll be okay,” he whispered. “We’ll be okay.”

“Lancelot,” Arthur exhaled heavily. “We’re not out of the woods. Not yet.”

“We will be,” Lancelot replied confidently. “Go to sleep, Arthur. We’ll hunt down our would-be assassins in the morning.”

Arthur mumbled some more before falling asleep, his head nestled in the crook of Lancelot’s neck. Arthur snored lightly and Lancelot stayed awake the whole night, studying each facet of the flat and realizing that he had just agreed to join this part of Arthur’s life – home and hearth.

37.

“Easy!” Bors warned, holding the door open. “Don’t go barreling in,” he threatened Dagonet, standing there and leaning against the wall for support, “and if any of my little bastards,” he shouted inside, “so much as mauls you, they’re going without treats for a week!” When he heard the reply of silence, he gave a satisfied nod and returned to help Dagonet walk. Dagonet hissed every few moments, but for the most part, he had gone quiet.

“Vanora?” Dagonet asked simply.

Bors closed the door behind them. “Resting. Doctor’s orders. Three guesses as to how she reacted to that order,” Bors gave an adoring chuckle. “She’s glad you’re back. She misses talking since I’m never around.” He maneuvered Dagonet past the watching children – wide eyes and silent as the grave. Dagonet slipped out of Bors’ grasp and slowly shuffled the rest of the way, pushing open the bedroom door to find a spare bed moved in.

“Dag,” Vanora greeted him warmly, swathed in blankets and glowing. “I tried to come and visit you…” Dagonet glared at her reprovingly. “Oh, don’t give me that look. It’s a technicality. Ever since the last pregnancy, we’re being more careful.”

Bors gave a small smile. “I’ll close the door. Nora, love, if he does so much as try and help you, a swift kick right in the balls ought to do it. Send him to bed.”

“Can do,” she said, no hint of playing in her eyes. Dagonet shuffled to the bed and sat down lightly, one hand always resting atop his bandaged wound. Bors gave them both one last look before closing the door and tending to the children. Vanora settled into the sheets, her hair framing her head like a fiery halo. “How you feeling, love?”

“As though I were shot,” Dagonet replied plainly, settling in himself and propping his back up with pillows so he could study her face – looking paler than normal. “Are you all right?” he asked quietly, recalling the last pregnancy and the miscarriage that had stolen their last child from them at the end of the first trimester. Vanora had ceased to speak for a week, locking herself in her room, and only coming out after that week, eyes swollen and red from crying, small smile on her face as she had kissed Bors, whispering, ‘We’ll try again.’

She grumbled slightly as she gave the sheets a swift punch. “My arse is sore from all this useless sitting. That bastard husband of mine keeps insisting on doing everything for me,” she commented with wonder. “The birth can’t come quickly enough.”

Dagonet gave her an even smile. “The rest should be good for you.”

“At least now I have company,” she smiled warmly at him. “How’s Galahad? Bors tells me he was worrying you lot.” She mumbled and swore under her breath. “Few more days of this, the doctor says. I can’t wait to be on my feet again.”

“I’m sure Gawain is taking proper care,” Dagonet commented with the slightest note of amusement in his voice. “He wouldn’t let us touch the pup the entire time he was in the hospital. Come to think of it, he barely let the nurses do their job.”

“He’s in love,” Vanora blithely replied.

“Of course he is,” Dagonet swiftly replied, shifting to get comfortable. “Just don’t let him or the boy hear that. They’d likely put a knife to our throats until we took it back.”

Her laugh was musical in the air, loud and happy. “Boys,” she lightly commented, still releasing the last remnants of her laughter, mingled with her voice. “You boys with your silly denial of anything resembling emotion.”

“They’ll be okay,” Dagonet said evenly, his eyes dropping as he fished through his pocket for the pill he was supposed to take. “I’m far more concerned about Arthur.”

Vanora pressed her lips together, giving in to the silence.

“I understand that Bors had to leave, I understand that Gawain and Galahad are too afraid of further damage, and I understand that Tristan feels he needs to remove himself while he works out the problem,” Dagonet murmured evenly. “None of that…none of that is going to make Arthur feel less guilty about what’s happened.”

“A good prayer with God and a good tumble with Lancelot won’t do it this time?” Vanora ventured quietly. She shook her head. “What am I saying, of course it won’t.” She hesitated. “Dagonet…”

“Yes?”

“Are you boys safe?”

Dagonet swallowed the pill without the aid of liquid, looking over at her with his darkened eyes. “Not yet.” 38.

Tristan ran his hand along the cold concrete of the grave, crouching down and placing one small sprig of greenery upon the ground — he had plucked it off a plant that he’d found on his way. He’d walked. He always preferred to walk, the feel of the Earth beneath his feet more real than any car could provide. The moonlight provided for enough light to guide Tristan’s steps, lighting up the night enough to give it a sense of fake security. The damp ground absorbed his footsteps and he saw a shadow by the graves he was heading towards. By the posture and the hang of the head, there was no doubt as to  _who_  it was.

“I’ve been trying to call you,” he didn’t even look up at Tristan, merely kept staring forward. “You aren’t picking up the phone. I know you’ve discovered who’s been hired to kill us, but you shouldn’t be working alone.” He still stared forward.

“Shouldn’t you be off chasing the boys and Bors down?” Tristan commented evenly, glancing at the grave. “Arthur, staring won’t bring him back.”

“And why aren’t you among those I should be ‘chasing down’”? Arthur mimicked Tristan’s tone, barely looking at Tristan before he returned to staring at the grave, eyes slipping shut heavily.

Tristan shrugged. “Their reasons were different from my own. Arthur, I brought this burden on, I’ll be the one to fix it. I’ll be back, but until then, I cannot remain by your side.”

Arthur made a small noise that seemed to die in his throat. Tristan shuffled, leaning against the grave next to Arthur’s fixation and he paused a moment to look at his commander. Arthur looked tired. There were wrinkles about his forehead that hadn’t been there a year ago and there were bags under Arthur’s eyes that were becoming quite permanent from the looks of it. Tristan sighed, shaking his head, wondering just how much of the strain and stress was from the job and how much of that perpetual lethargy came from having to put up with Lancelot.

“He was the first to die,” Arthur remarked quietly.

Tristan craned his neck to look at the grave. “Who, Agravaine?”

Arthur made a grunt of a noise. “He loved that damn name. I think…I think…no, I can’t remember what his name was before, but he took it on and he loved it. He swore he’d live up to that name in both honour and courage.” Arthur smiled wistfully. “He more than proved his worth, and he saved my life countless times. I wouldn’t be where I am if it wasn’t for him.” Arthur sighed, tore his gaze away from the moss-covered grave and looked at Tristan. “I don’t know whether I should blame him or thank him,” Arthur said plainly.

“Why not both?” Tristan passively commented.

Arthur snorted – requisite laughter. “Sometimes I wonder what it would be like if you’d been with us from the start.”

“No doubt less loyal than Lancelot and less subdued than Dagonet,” Tristan shrugged. “It would be just as it is now. I don’t change. Time changes, I watch it go by.” He kicked absently at a pile of dirt in Percival’s grave, remembering his funeral and how it had poured that day, hailing intermittently. “I’m going to kill Cynric and Cerdic,” Tristan commented.

Arthur sighed again, gaze never flickering from Tristan’s face. “I know. I found out it was them.”

“I’m going to kill them,” Tristan said coolly. He relaxed and shifted until he was sitting on the grave, hands in his lap. “I won’t use any of your procedures or protocol. It’s my chance to finally have some fun with the damn killings. They won’t be able to track it to you.” He flexed slightly and tossed Arthur the gun he’d been using on the last job, which Arthur caught swiftly and pocketed without a single fumble.

Arthur gave a weak laugh. “Or maybe they will. I may have threatened the policewoman that used to be on our case.” He rolled his eyes. “Not threatened. Warned…in a severe tone of voice.”

Tristan laughed – warm, actual laughter bubbling from places that he didn’t much turn to anymore, but in times of dire need, they could be found. “With your tone of voice, almost everything could be perceived as a threat,” Tristan said evenly. He checked his watch. “I should be going. I just came by to get Dinidan’s blessing.” He nodded to one of the graves down the way and crossed Arthur on his way.

“You stopped caring when he died,” Arthur’s voice was carried on the wind, though Arthur hadn’t advanced at all. Tristan crouched down, taking fistfuls of dirt in his hands and closing his eyes. “You don’t laugh, you don’t smile, you don’t care.”

“Go back to Lancelot,” Tristan called back. “I’ll be around when the job’s done.”

Arthur didn’t say a word. Tristan only heard the retreating footsteps and the occasional twig breaking in half.

“Dinidan,” he whispered. “I may be joining you. I don’t do it in vain. Watch me this time. Keep one eye out for me.”

39.

Dagonet shuffled along the hallway, gun in his coat pocket and sword concealed in his long coat as always. His stomach wound was giving him slight trouble, but two days of pure rest had allowed him to at least be able to walk. It hadn’t taken him long to find out what was going on. A few well-placed phone calls gave him Cerdic and Cynric’s whereabouts and Dagonet knew what time Tristan liked to work at. He’d kissed Vanora on the forehead as she slept and slipped out when Bors was at the pub and the children were being watched.

Walking down the hallway seemed to last an eternity.

Finally, he came to the ajar door, hearing the sound of pleading inside. Dagonet made sure all his weapons were concealed as he slipped inside, wincing as someone bumped right into him, hand pushing up against the wound. He looked down to find a small man with panicked eyes staring up at him.

“Are you here to help?” he asked, his words clipped. Dagonet looked past him to see Tristan standing over a bigger man, wider in breadth and bleeding profusely from at least five cuts. He was also notably  _alive_  and by the cold smile on Tristan’s face, he was enjoying this kill and was likely to drag it out. “Good, oh, good, thank the gods you’re here to help,” he mumbled, his words rushed and grateful.

Dagonet turned, one hand clamped on the thinner man’s arm – Cynric; the son – and closed the door behind him.

“He’s a maniac!” Cynric angrily raged. “Look what he’s done to my father! Thank the gods,” he repeated, “thank the gods you’re here to help. Are you police?”

“It will be okay,” Dagonet commented evenly, getting Tristan’s attention and catching his eye.

He shifted the slightest inch to reach for the knife he kept in the back of his trousers and withdrew it, moving his hand from Cynric’s arm to an easy grip on the back of his neck, holding and choking at the pressure points as he slashed upwards in a diagonal line, blood spilling everywhere and splattering Dagonet’s face as he slashed again the other way, creating a bloody mess of an ‘X’ on Cynric’s throat. Cynric began to choke on his own blood, falling to his knees and clutching at his throat, twitching on the floor as the blood poured out onto the carpet.

Dagonet withdrew his gun and shot Cynric once in the heart, making sure he was dead before stepping over the body and to the chair Tristan had tied Cerdic to. “How long have you been torturing him for?”

“Not long,” Tristan idly commented. “I threatened the son that I’d kill his father if he tried to do anything. Then you came along.”

“I couldn’t just let you do this on your own.”

Tristan cleared his throat and wiped at his bloody knife, studying Cerdic’s body. Cerdic was swaying slightly, face pale from the blood loss. There were strategic cuts all over Cerdic’s arms and two even cuts on his cheeks. “He’s the one who shot you and the whelp. Cynric tried to kill Arthur and Lancelot. He won’t scream for me.”

“Tristan,” Dagonet said quietly. “Kill him.”

“He has to suffer,” Tristan hissed through gritted teeth. He held the knife perilously close to Cerdic’s throat, but no matter how much Tristan hurt Cerdic, the man didn’t beg once. He merely stared up, always challenging, never showing pain. “He’s caused you pain, hurt Galahad, hurt Arthur. He suffers.”

“Tristan,” Dagonet scolded. “Kill him. Finish it.” He kept his gun trained on Cerdic’s heart, ready to shoot any moment.

Tristan simply stood there, knife trailing down Cerdic’s shirt and slitting it open, creating a vertical line of dripping blood, as though he was preparing the man for open heart surgery, all the while Dagonet watched. “He has to suffer,” Tristan repeated quietly.

“Tristan, kill him or I will,” Dagonet threatened, cocking his gun.

Tristan looked up long enough to give Dagonet a terrible sneer, holding Dagonet’s stare until he faltered, tucking his knife away and unsheathing his sword, placing it on Cerdic’s neck, but never taking his eyes off of Dagonet. With one strong swing of the sword, Tristan beheaded Cerdic, stepping back simply to thrust forward and stab him once in the heart. Tristan stepped away, taking out a cloth and polishing his sword, remaining mindful of Dagonet’s presence, neither of them saying a word or moving.

“Let it go,” Dagonet advised.

Tristan sheathed his sword and straightened his coat, heading for the door and stepping over the corpse on the ground. “I’ve got to call my contact on the force. He actually paid me for this job. They were on the top of their wanted list. We’re off of it.”

“Shall I tell Arthur?” Dagonet closed the door behind them as they left and began to walk down the seemingly never-ending hallway again.

Tristan shook his head, a small smile on his face, wrapping one arm around Dagonet’s waist and shouldering some of the burden as Dagonet winced, his gunshot wound giving him shooting pains. “I can do that. After all, if I don’t provide information, then what am I doing on the payroll?”

40.

Galahad winced as he managed to make it into the living room, finding his mobile buried under the cushions. It was nearly two months after his time in the hospital and he was able to walk on his own now without Gawain’s help and he was doing better with the pain, getting down to two painkillers a day and three doctors’ visits a week. Gawain stopped following him  _everywhere_  and now only followed him three-quarters of the time.

The night before, Galahad had dreamt that the shot hadn’t grazed him, that he hadn’t been hit by ricochet. Instead, he’d been killed. He shifted stiffly onto the couch, sitting upright as he dialed and waited for someone to pick up. “Mom? Hi. It’s me.”

He looked down at the ground, shuffling his toes into the carpet and clearing his throat in an effort to get the lump out. “I know I haven’t called in a while, I…Mom, I’m sorry. I’m in trouble,” he confessed quickly. “It’s money. I’m in trouble with money,” he quickly clarified as her panicked voice filled the line. The last thing he wanted was to tell her about the wounds, which would only make it a matter of time before Gawain’s mother found out and visited to play nurse.  _Like mother, like son_ , Galahad snorted to himself.

He sighed and listened to her begin her lecture. “No, I paid half of it myself,” he explained tiredly, rubbing at his eyes. He heard a door quietly shut and looked up to find Gawain lingering in the foyer. “Mother, no, I am fine. I just…I wanted to call and apologize. I’m sorry I yelled at you and Father. I am,” he whispered, genuinely wanting her forgiveness. Slowly, Gawain was walking towards him, dropping the grocery bags in the kitchen before leaning over and wrapping his arms around Galahad’s chest, resting his chin on Galahad’s curls. “I’m not in danger, no, Mom, I just wanted to tell you I’m sorry. The trouble is over.”

He looked up and shared a brief smile with Gawain. “Yes, I’m still living with Gawain.” He frowned as he listened. “His mother told you what?” he asked, shocked. Gawain raised a curious eyebrow.

“Really?” Galahad gave an amused laugh, bowing his head forward, smiling as Gawain began to lightly massage his shoulders. “No. No, she’s not wrong.” Galahad slipped the phone away from his mouth as he let out a pleased moan at the movements of Gawain’s hands. “I understand,” he brought the phone back, smiling. “Thanks, Mom, it means a lot. From you and Father, it does.”

He smiled softly. “I love you too.”

“What did she have to say?” Gawain asked, taking the phone from Galahad after he’d hung up and placed it neatly on the table crowded with their personal effects. He grabbed a bottle of water, holding it out for Galahad as he unearthed a pill for him to take.

Galahad grinned, looking up at Gawain. “Apparently, your mother knows about us hooking up? Except, she thinks we’re dating in the most conventional sense of the word. By the way, she wants you over for dinner. ‘To meet your new boyfriend’, she said,” Galahad snickered, holding a hand over his mouth as he burst into louder laughter. “What did you tell your mother!”

Gawain slowly sat on the couch so that he was facing Galahad. “I told her that I was in love with you,” he said plainly. “That I love you.”

Galahad’s smirk grew into a more genuine grin as his face lit up. “Well,” he said, his voice sounding punch-drunk with the happiness, “I can certainly begin to understand how that could be misconstrued,” he mocked, laughing. “God, my family wants to meet you,” he wrinkled his nose. “That’s so domestic.”

“Do they shower your boyfriends and girlfriends with gifts?” Gawain asked hopefully.

Galahad stuck out his tongue, slumping into the couch as he took his pill and grabbed a blanket. “My love isn’t gift enough? Greedy bastard.”

“Me? Greedy?” Gawain scoffed. “Sir ‘Oh, I Only Want A Yacht’,” Gawain mocked in his haughtiest tone.

“Shut up,” Galahad ordered between laughs, an indignant look on his face. “It was a combined gift from  _all_  my relatives!” He gave Gawain a light shove in the shoulder, sitting up and shoving Gawain a little harder when Gawain wouldn’t stop laughing at him. “Oh my god,” he sneered. “Now I’m not saying it back.”

“Saying what back?” Gawain gasped between laughs.

“I love you,” Galahad replied, not laughing once as he said the words, all indignation and humour removed from his face. He smiled, leaning in and handing Gawain the bottle of water, enjoying watching Gawain’s face as he slowly stopped laughing and reacted to Galahad’s words. “Oh, get that shocked look off your face,” Galahad complained. “You’re acting as if you didn’t know.”

“No touching for years might have led me astray,” Gawain replied dryly.

Galahad shrugged. “You didn’t notice that I wasn’t really bringing girls and guys back here anymore? That I hadn’t had a relationship since I was eighteen? That I never slept with the same person more than three times? I always thought your brother was the stupider of the two of you, but you’re giving him a fair fight here. I gave you loads of signals, but you never ever talked to me. So I assumed you were fine with no touching.”

“I’m the idiot,” Gawain muttered to himself, irony weighting down every word. “Galahad, who…”

“Shut up,” Galahad interrupted lightly. “This is supposed to be a nice moment. Now, go pick out a suit. My mother’s going to act like she’s never seen you before. You’re the ‘boyfriend’ now,” he mocked, holding up his fingers to make quotes. Gawain laughed loudly, ruffling Galahad’s hair violently. “Oh, and don’t think this changes anything,” Galahad said petulantly. “I’m not some woman now who’ll cater to your whims just because I confessed to love.”

“I wouldn’t want it any other way,” Gawain laughed, tugging Galahad’s blanket off him and redistributing it to cover both of them.

41.

“Push,” Bors encouraged her, whispering the words again and again, yelping in pain as Vanora squeezed his hand a little tighter. “Vanora, love, you want to let up on my poor hand? Dagonet’s sitting right over there!” he scowled, glancing across the bed to Dagonet, who was dressed in the same green hospital wear and rubber white gloves.

“Dagonet’s…healing,” she panted, her other hand grasping the hospital sheets as she let out a loud shriek of pain. Her grip on Bors’ hand grew tighter. “You’re not!”

The baby was there a month early and while Vanora was happy to welcome the bundle of joy ahead of time, Bors had been caught unprepared. It had only been two weeks since Arthur had called them all, leaving a simple message on their machines that simply said, “We’re safe.” Since then, Bors had been taking advantage of going out in public and finding furniture for the new baby, but they had no crib, no baby food, and Dagonet’s doctor still had appointments to give him the all-clear on his wound.

“You’re hurting me!” Bors growled.

Vanora glared, heaving as she inhaled ragged breaths. “I’m hurting more, you bastard.” She let out a louder cry, whimpering slightly as Dagonet lightly massaged at her arm, brushing her sweat-soaked hair out of her eyes. “Thank…thank you,” she gasped.

The nurse smiled sweetly at all three of them. “Just a few more pushes and you’re there,” she said gently.

“Good,” Vanora bowed her head forward as Dagonet held her hair back. She groaned and pushed hard, squeezing her face in concentration. “Oh fuck,” she swore, letting out a broken cry that was soon dominated by the louder cries of a baby in the small room. She let out a gasp and collapsed onto the bed, listless and breathing raggedly. Bors smiled at her lovingly, clasping her hand and patting her. “Is it a girl?” she asked weakly.

“It’s a girl,” the nurse confirmed.

Vanora grinned. “I knew it,” she whispered tiredly. She glanced up at Bors, smiling victoriously. “I told you so,” she softly said, shifting to sit up and taking the baby in her arms – her tiny cries softened now with the sheer effort of crying. “Hey, love,” Vanora whispered, poking at the baby’s nose. “You’re a lucky little girl, you know. Your Daddy’s going to be around, no more danger, no more trouble. Wish I could say the same about your Uncle Dag.”

“She’ll learn to be detached from me,” Dagonet commented evenly.

Vanora smiled, letting out a relieved sigh. “Oh, thank goodness. Less bed rest,” she said wryly.

Bors laughed, clutching Vanora’s hand and brushing aside tiny hairs on the baby’s head, listening to her coo softly and slowly fall asleep, her tiny mouth open and breathing in, her face red. “She looks like mine,” Bors grinned, victorious. “Good.”

“She is yours,” Vanora murmured. “Take her, please. Mommy needs to fall asleep.”

Dagonet smiled and leaned back slowly, letting Bors pick up the baby and slowly pulling away to give Vanora her space. Bors grinned and handed the baby to the nurse, clapping Dagonet on the back and pulling him out into the hall. “How about that, Dag?” Bors grinned happily. “My little girl. C’mon, let’s go buy cigars.”

42.

Lancelot surveyed the movers as they shuffled in from the back door, carrying wrapped parcels and packages of new office furniture. “Dagonet’s going to love it,” Lancelot commented to himself, crossing his arms. He glanced over his shoulder to find Arthur coming in the back way with his briefcase, dodging movers as he went. Lancelot grinned and greeted Arthur with a small grope of his arse, gesturing to the movers. “Like it?”

“What’s going on?” Arthur asked.

Lancelot smiled with smug satisfaction. “I took the liberty of buying Dagonet a welcome back present. New office furniture.” He crossed his arms and escaped Arthur’s grasp, digging out a few bills and tipping the movers. “Thanks.” He closed the steel door behind them and sat in the office chair, reclining and relaxing. He spun in the chair. “What do you think?”

“I think you’ve done an incredibly good thing,” Arthur leaned on the desk. He frowned as he looked over to the couch to find a wrapped gift sitting in the middle. “Is that a gift for Dagonet as well?”

“You, actually,” Lancelot said casually, placing his hands behind his head. “Go ahead. Open it.”

Arthur gave Lancelot a suspicious look. He slowly pushed himself off the desk, taking hesitant steps towards the present, as though it were a bomb. “Have you heard from Gawain or Galahad yet?” he commented over his shoulder as he took the small box off the couch and shook it, immediately being assaulted by the sound of something rattling. He took the opposite leather chair across Lancelot.

“No,” Lancelot shook his head. “I figure it’ll be any day now.”

As Lancelot spoke, Arthur unwrapped the box and opened it, frowning and pulling out a gold Rolex. He frowned. “What is this?” he held it out to study it.

“I know you aren’t blind,” Lancelot commented evenly. “Happy Retirement, Arthur,” Lancelot applauded lightly, sitting upright. “It’s a gold Rolex watch. It’s a typical retirement gift for those shuffling off to greener grasses.”

“I’m not retiring,” Arthur slowly commented.

Lancelot smirked. “Yes, you are. I’m sorry, Arthur, didn’t you hear? The student you were training is taking over. He finally realizes that it’s not a burden you’re forcing on him, but his life. It seems the student realized that you want him to be a part of the job you loved and that you’ve been doing it too long.”

“You’re taking over?”

Lancelot smiled softly, nodding. “I’m taking over.” He smirked. “Oh, don’t act like this is some rite of passage. You’re not actually retiring, you’re just no longer the one in charge. No more falling asleep from paperwork and having to do everything. It’s my turn.” He grinned. “At least until I can convince Dagonet to take over.”

Arthur nodded, slipping the watch onto his wrist. “You’ll be a great leader.”

“I can’t beat the best,” Lancelot shrugged, grabbing his mobile and placing it on the desk. “I think they’ll call within a week.”

“Two days,” Arthur laid out a few bills on the table. “That’s a bet.”

Lancelot scoffed. “I don’t accept bets from part-timers.” He reclined into the chair again, kicking his feet atop the desk and letting out a relaxed sigh. “I could get used to this whole being in power thing. The perks are certainly nice. Lessons from the master himself whenever I bat my pretty little curled eyelashes.”

Arthur snorted. “Don’t push it.”

43.

Dagonet pushed into the club after Gawain’s phone call, asking him to check on Galahad and keep an eye on him while Gawain got ready. Both Galahad and Dagonet had been into the hospital that day for a last check-up and Dagonet had received an ‘all clear’ regarding his health, saying he could resume his old habits and routines. He descended the stairs slowly, looking around the seats for Galahad and where he might be sitting, but it was when he looked to the dance floor that he found him. Galahad caught his eyes and beckoned him onto the floor, grinding with some pretty little brunette in a revealing top and a tiny skirt.

Dagonet shook his head and pushed his way through the crowd, pressing up against Galahad’s back and wrapping his hands around Galahad’s front, his big hands framing Galahad’s hips as he bent down to whisper in his ear. “Gawain doesn’t mind?” Dagonet asked, slowly swaying Galahad’s hips left once and then right, giving them a rhythm to move to. Galahad craned his neck backwards and grinned. “I was given a full bill of health. You?”

“Healed,” Galahad smiled – and there was no smirk to his lips, no smugness to that smile. “He doesn’t mind so long as I don’t take them home.” He winked at a passing blonde in leather trousers, brushing his hand against a tall, lanky man’s arse and giving a good squeeze. “I can flirt all I want.”

“You say that now,” Dagonet scoffed. “We’ll see how you act when he’s here watching you.”

“Where is he?” Galahad shouted above the music, grinding back into Dagonet’s jeans a little harder, closing his eyes and moving to the beat. Dagonet leaned over Galahad’s shoulder to check his watch. Ten o’clock. Gawain was due in at any moment. “He promised me a dance if I was healthy,” Galahad muttered. Dagonet shook his head again, fine with keeping Galahad occupied, but he wanted to get back to Bors and Vanora. The baby was giving her a little bit of trouble and Bors never could handle that on his own. The child had a slight case of jaundice, which was completely normal, yet Bors and Vanora were acting as if the child was their first with their worry.

“He’ll be here soon,” Dagonet assured, not really dancing anymore, but keeping his hands on Galahad’s hips, knowing Gawain would probably thank him later if he kept Galahad’s admirers at bay. “Are you boys coming back to the fold now that the trouble has blown over?”

“Gawain seems to want to talk about it, but I…oh…” Galahad trailed off, freezing up on the dance floor as he glanced up to the entrance above the steel stairs. Dagonet frowned, wondering what could have happened to make Galahad seize up like that, and he followed Galahad’s gaze to find Gawain standing at the entrance, clad in a lycra black tank-top and tight leather trousers, his hair tousled and braided again. “Oh,” Galahad exhaled again, the sound strangled.

Galahad slipped away slowly from Dagonet’s grasp, aided by Dagonet’s relinquishing his grasp on him, letting him go. Dagonet nodded when Gawain caught his gaze and made sure that the boys were going to be okay before he slipped out the exit, embracing the cold night and lighting a cigarette as he made his way back home. Vanora hated it in the house and with the new baby just home, he’d be a dead man if he came through the door with a lit cigarette. It was a small price to pay, so he smoked on the streets.

*

Gawain hovered on the edges of the dance floor, letting Galahad come to him, drawn like metal to a magnet. No sooner than Gawain thought about getting them some drinks, but Galahad was attached to him, hands roving under the tight tank top and feeling his muscles, creating fabric-covered outlines of his fingers.

“You look amazing,” Galahad commented in wonder, pulling his hands from under Gawain’s top and straightening it so there were no wrinkles. “Why haven’t you ever worn that before!” he shouted above the music.

Gawain grinned. “It’s new,” he whispered into Galahad’s ear, biting at the lobe. “Bought it for the special occasion. I trust there is a special occasion? You’re healed?” Galahad nodded swiftly, escaping the grasp of Gawain’s lips in the process. “Good. No more guilt when I bed you, thinking I’ll burst a stitch.”

“No more adventure,” Galahad pouted, making Gawain laugh loudly as he tugged Galahad to the bar with him and ordered two shots of tequila. “Dagonet wants to know if we’re going back.”

“Do you need more money?” Gawain raised his eyebrows. “I thought your parents forgave you.” He grinned smugly. “And of course, loved your new, perfect boyfriend.”

Galahad shook his head, taking back the shot and biting down on a lemon. He licked his lips as he leaned into Gawain, holding out the lemon for him and watching as Gawain tipped back his own shot, biting and sucking on the lemon and not stopping there, moving on to suck at each of Galahad’s fingertips. He leaned in, kissing the remnants of tequila off Galahad’s lips before pulling away.

“You want to go back?” Gawain asked incredulously.

Galahad shrugged. “Maybe! I don’t know. C’mon, you owe me a dance!” Galahad grabbed one of Gawain’s hands with his own, leaning in and pressing their chests together to ward off any would-be admirers as Galahad pushed Gawain onto the dance floor, grinning the whole time, his hands wrapped firmly around Gawain’s back, stroking and feeling the muscles there.

“Just one,” Gawain agreed. “Then, we have to go celebrate.”

44.

Lancelot’s first day as the new boss came as the same day that Arthur took the day off for the first time in fifteen years. Lancelot arrived at the brisk hour of nine in the morning, opening the door to find Dagonet sitting there in his new chair, spinning slightly and bouncing to test out the support. Lancelot grinned as he welcomed the morning light pouring in the windows. “Like it?” Lancelot asked. “It’s not cheap. I don’t buy cheap.”

“I love it,” Dagonet murmured his approval. “Don’t know how I’ll fend the others off.”

“Where’s Tristan?” Lancelot dropped his papers on the table.

Dagonet scoffed. “Ireland,” he explained. “Isolde called. Guess who went running.” Dagonet shot off a rubber band casually, hitting Lancelot square in the chest. Dagonet smiled at the victory. “He’ll likely be back within the week, wanting to inflict torture on something after she breaks his heart once more. You know, it used to be so much easier.”

“Hmm?” Lancelot glanced up from the mail. “You mean, when Dinidan was around? The three of them?”

“Tristan was happier, he was,” Dagonet conceded, “but he wasn’t as good a fighter.”

“Sacrifices must be made,” Lancelot shrugged, heading over to the coffee machine, grinning when he found a full pot. He bent down to find a cup and noticed that everything had a distinctly neater look to it, as though someone had spent a good bit of time tidying up the place. “You put the coffee on?” he asked casually, ready to pledge over his gratitude for the caffeine. He leaned over the counter, grabbing another cup when he realized Dagonet had none.

“No,” Dagonet replied evenly.

Lancelot frowned, pouring the second cup. “Who did?”

Dagonet nodded towards the training room, reclining in the chair again and smiling gratefully as Lancelot brought him the cup of coffee, filled to the brim just how he liked it – two milks, one sugar – and heading towards the training room, opening the door to find Gawain and Galahad with a trash bag between the two of them, dusting around the room and in the middle of a subdued conversation – seemingly about mothers, at least to Lancelot’s ears. Lancelot frowned, leaning against the door. “You two have been cleaning up?” Lancelot commented, confused. “What’s going on? Is this some kind of reverse payment for quitting?”

“Quitting?” Galahad commented, his brow furrowed.

Lancelot gestured to the trash bags and their general presence. “What are you two doing here?”

Gawain grinned, glancing at Galahad before turning to Lancelot. He opened his coat to reveal his sword sheathed and his gun in his holster. “We’re in,” Gawain said simply. “Right, Galahad?”

Galahad nodded. “We’re in,” he confirmed, turning back to Gawain. “I don’t care what you say, Gawain, I am not spending Christmas with your mother and your heathen of a brother and I don’t care…”

Lancelot let the door slip shut behind him, thanking Arthur for having thick walls built into the place. He sipped lightly at his coffee to conceal his pleased grin as he made his way to the couch and withdrew his deck of cards, flipping the top card of the deck.

It came up aces.


	2. Thrill of the Kill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gawain's first kill. "The adrenaline makes you do funny things."
> 
> Gawain/Dagonet pairing

Gawain’s opportunity for a first kill was given to him at the young age of eighteen. Galahad was off with some girl on another date – their fourth – a girl that Gawain disapproved heartily of, knowing a gold digger when he saw one. She had the hungry thirst for money in her eyes, cooing and simpering every time Galahad withdrew his wallet. Gawain most vehemently did not like her. So, Galahad was on a date and Gawain was on a kill.  
  
Briefly, he wondered just how long he could keep this life from Galahad.  
  
“You nervous?” Dagonet asked, raising one eyebrow calmly as he slipped his leather gloves on. Gawain shook his head, vehemently and silently, his shoulder-length hair in wisps. He quickly put on his cap and sighed, knowing this was the only way to get out of his troubles without his mother finding out that her son had wound up with two inexplicable broken legs because of a bad loan. “Good. Don’t be nervous. I’ve done this before. You’ve trained.”  
  
“I feel almost excited,” Gawain confided in a whisper, shoving wavy strands behind his ears and tucking his hair under his cap. He wanted to grow it long again, maybe add some braids to it. Tristan would surely help. “Like my heart’s sped up twice as much as it should.”  
  
“Then you’re ready,” Dagonet said quietly, a proud smile hanging on the corner of his lips. “I’m just going to watch and let you have the thrill. He shouldn’t scream much, not after you tie him down,” Dagonet offered Gawain a long strip of cloth; thick, something that would muffle screams. Gawain grinned and took the long cloth into hand along with the coarse ropes Tristan had given him before they left.   
  
“So,” Gawain leaned in, shuffling until his gun was at easy access. “You think Tristan’s used these on Dinidan?”  
  
“Or Isolde,” Dagonet laughed quietly. “They’re a strange sort.”  
  
Gawain laughed quietly, pressing his lips together to quiet himself as he took a deep breath, counted to three. He nodded slowly as he made it to his feet and pressed his lips hard to Dagonet’s. “For luck,” he explained in a hush, creeping towards the house and gripping the trellis, slowly ascending towards the heavens of the second floor where the balcony door was kept open during the summer months. Gawain reached the top and hopped over the balcony’s edge, silent as he crept forward, gag taut between his hands.   
  
He slipped forward with great stealth and in three short seconds, had the mark gagged, turned, and pushed to the bed as Gawain grabbed the ropes and began to make quick work of tying him down. Gawain worked fast, not going for the showmanship like Tristan or Lancelot might, but instead enjoying the briskness that efficiency had to offer. Gawain bit on his lip and breathed in and out as evenly as he could, not about to risk ruining a job because of his nerves.   
  
He withdrew his sword, wanting his first kill – he’d dreamt of this, nightmares and dreams that haunted him for weeks – to be by the blade instead of the gun. Gawain nodded his head downwards, whispering his Mother’s favourite words for good luck to the goddess before taking his sword and staring down the mark, who showed him  _no_  fear.  
  
“You were a brave man,” Gawain commented quietly, slitting his throat with one fell swoop of the sword, never missing and always lethal. “You will be missed,” he told the corpse, turning and sheathing his sword. He didn’t form any attachment. There was no reason he should care about the life he just took. The only lives on the line were his own and Dagonet’s.  
  
“Nice work,” Dagonet said approvingly.   
  
Gawain grinned, letting his emotions slide forward now that he could afford to lose a little bit of control. “Yeah?” he grabbed the cloth Dagonet threw to him, cleaning any evidence that he might have left. His fingers were gloved and his hair was still tucked under the cap. There were no cameras in the room and Gawain and Dagonet had an alibi prepared for them, just in case.  
  
“You were efficient,” Dagonet said briskly, crawling back down the way they came. “I like that,” he whispered back up to Gawain as Gawain hopped the balcony and began to climb down the trellis. “It speaks of talent. That you don’t need to show off.”  
  
“Stop,” Gawain said dryly. “You’re flattering me.”  
  
“You deserve to be flattered,” Dagonet gave him a pat on the back. “I’ve noticed the extra hours you’ve been putting into training. You deserved this kill and you did well.”  
  
Gawain licked his lips, heart beating too fast; mind running through too many thoughts. He stepped forward, Dagonet’s hand not moving from his shoulder – the warmth of his big fingers seeping through Gawain’s black shirt. “Do I get my reward now?” he asked cheekily, sounding a bit too much like Galahad for his likes. He grinned slyly, abandoning that thought for tomorrow. He would confront Galahad about the gold-digger; maybe even get Galahad to dump her. Right now, he wanted a release for this energy.  
  
Dagonet raised one eyebrow.  
  
“I’ve heard stories,” Gawain whispered, still grinning. “Of the hotels Arthur and Lancelot go to? Of the old days of you and Bors and Vanora. I heard Bedivere took Tristan to bed.”  
  
“Stories,” Dagonet replied evenly.   
  
Gawain blinked, not giving a single inch. “C’mon,” he urged, leaning up and stealing a harsh kiss, fast and hot. “Come on,” he whispered again, pushing his hips against Dagonet’s. “Take the car, drive it to the woods, we’ll go in the backseat. You can drive,” Gawain promised, eyes bright with enthusiastic hope. His lips were quirked in the oddest, most hopeful smile and he just wanted his  _release_. “Or I could always go ask Tristan…”  
  
“Get in the car,” Dagonet ordered, an amused set to his face – but never an actual grin, not from Dagonet. “I know a place.”   
  
Gawain did as ordered, sliding into the leather and grinning madly at Dagonet, his heart pumping with the adrenaline. The revving of the engine was like music to his ears and the cool night air cycled through the open windows as Dagonet just drove, Gawain’s trust in his hands and the fate of the night in the air. Gawain closed his eyes, pulling the cap off and shaking his hair loose from the messy knot he’d tied it in, frizzing in the climate.  
  
“Almost there,” Dagonet reassured.   
  
Gawain nodded, tapping his fingers in rhythmic anticipation against the dashboard of the sleek car. Finally, the engine was turned off and the sound of crickets in the dead of the night assaulted their ears. Gawain unbuckled quickly, crawling into the back seat and wasting no time in taking off his belt and shoving down his trousers. “Make me shout, why don’t you?” He gave a feral grin as he tugged Dagonet on top of him, pushing Dagonet’s shirt buttons open and shoving the zipper of his jeans down, cursing loudly as he fumbled and reached into his pocket for the emergency condom he carried around – just in case.   
  
He pushed it into Dagonet’s palm.   
  
“Be quick, go slow, I don’t care,” Gawain said in a rush. “Just need a release.”  
  
Dagonet gave a small smile. “You sound like Percival. Impatient bastard, he is.”  
  
“Don’t compare me to him,” Gawain protested, arching his back and guiding Dagonet’s hands to his cock. “He’s lanky and scrawny and complains all the time about everything. Even the job. You know I’m not like that.”  
  
Dagonet gave an amused chuckle. “I know. I don’t work out with people I can’t stand,” he said evenly, pushing Gawain’s thighs apart and shifting until he was perfectly atop Gawain, rolling the condom on slowly, one hand – and splayed fingers – stroking Gawain’s cock with slow and sure precision. Gawain exhaled slowly, tipping his head back to the sky and enjoying the view. Dagonet knew what he was doing, that much was clear from the way he was pushing into Gawain with a care that spoke of a man who had done this before  _many_  times, yet did not care to brag about it the next day. Gawain grunted a little. “Easy,” Dagonet instructed gently, one hand descending to hold onto Gawain’s hip, the other still methodically stroking Gawain’s cock – all the while Dagonet kept thrusting in evenly, hips rolling upwards.   
  
Not once did Dagonet close his eyes or seem to lose control.   
  
Gawain, on the other hand, lost control of his senses in the midst of his being fucked. His breathing slipped into ragged pulls of oxygen and his sense of touch went into overdrive. His hand slipped from its grip on the back of the seat more than once and he stuttered out unintelligible phrases and names, exhaling “faster,” a few times. Dagonet obliged with a murmur and a grunt, pushing into Gawain a little faster, stroking a little harder.  
  
Gawain came, shutting his eyes tight, hissing out air through clenched teeth as he bowed his head into his chest, the world coming back to him. He was greeted with the sounds of Dagonet mumbling something beneath his breath, coming as he did … and the sounds of Gawain’s mobile.   
  
“Fuck,” Gawain swore, rubbing his eyes and tapping Dagonet on the shoulder. “No, you were good. That was good,” he grinned and assured, untangling from Dagonet’s grasp and fumbling to lean into the front seat to get his phone. “Yeah?” he started, his voice hoarse. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Dagonet redress and get back into complete control, tossing the condom into the woods and getting back into the front seat.   
  
Gawain frowned, listening to the babbling at the other end of the line.  
  
“What do you mean you’re alone?” he asked with worry. “She did…she…you dumped her?” Gawain tried desperately to keep the happiness and relief out of his voice. “Oh, Galahad,” Gawain murmured. “No, just stay there, okay? I’ll be there. I’ll come get you.” Gawain hung up and shook his head, crawling back into the front and doing up his trousers. “His date threw water in his face and left him stranded with no money at the restaurant after he dumped her and she dumped the dessert in his lap.”  
  
Dagonet chuckled. “Sounds like a real ladies’ man.”  
  
Gawain snorted. “That’s the problem,” he groaned. “All right, let’s go. I have to go pick up Prince Charming.”


End file.
